


while night's black agents to their preys do rouse

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but Jon isn't that enthusiastic about it), (or well at least it's no one you care about), (yes even with the least flufftastic setting in existence), Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Noir, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder Mystery, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R plus L equals J, Ramsay is his own warning, Robb Stark is a Gift, Vigilantism, but in a very loose way, in which a plot grew when it shouldn't have been half as long, some of this is watchmen-inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which King’s Landing has four heroes that it sorely needs but doesn’t deserve. (Also, in which Robb Stark finds the one among them that <i>he</i> needs and deserves, and viceversa.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leapylion3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/gifts).



> So. Uhm. My GOT-exchange prompt this round was _some sort of vigilante AU. Inspired by Arrow/The Flash, maybe? Hoping for a darker, film noir kind of type of vibe. Would love to see what kind of abilities/powers the author gives the characters._ Now, as I don’t watch neither Arrow or The Flash this isn’t an AU of either. But if you tell me ‘vigilante AU’ the first two things I think of are Watchmen and Sin City. Which is how I ended up with the actual vigilantes being inspired by wholly different franchises among which those two, but the only plot directly related to either is Theon’s backstory/costume pretty much (actually that's straight from a Watchmen AU I had planned once but it stopped at that point so I might have just gone with the basic concept). Also I had started this thinking ‘I’m going to keep this fairly dark/gritty at least until things get inevitably fluffy in the end because I know myself’ and instead I ended up with more than one scene that are straight up not gritty and Robb and Theon started being fairly fluffier than they should have been way earlier than I thought they'd be. At that point I just went with it so uhm this is probably the weirdest vigilante au in the history of vigilante aus but idek guys just go with it. Also, I have no clue how you hack the kind of server some of the character hack in the latter part of this fic but I know nothing about that so just pretend my explanations make somehow sense.
> 
> For plot purposes, let’s assume that this is 20th century Westeros which actually exists as an Earth continent or something – sorry, I need it to happen for the references. The title is from _Macbeth_ and if anyone is interested in who’s inspired by whom or what, I'll put an extra note in the last chapter.
> 
> Also: this is rated explicit because better safe than not and the beginning deals with Ramsay having been Ramsay, but like, expect it to be explicit because of language/violence/that kind of content, not because there's sex-related content.

_Prologue_

_November 1st, 1999_

 

Ned Stark, King’s Landing Commissioner of Police, has just decided to go home after a long, fruitless eighteen-hours long shift when his phone rings.

It’s three in the morning and Ned has just put on his coat after a long day of dead ends about one particular case, one he shouldn’t be following personally but that he _is_ , since – well, when your daughter’s thirteen year-old best friend is kidnapped most probably just to get back at _you_ , you have a moral obligation to at least follow the investigation.

For one moment he dreads picking up the phone, because no one ever calls at this time of the night for good news. He thinks about Jeyne, such a sweet girl, she and Sansa became fast friends in kindergarten and she kept on staying around the house even after Ned’s promotion made him and his family easier targets – there’s a reason why his children don’t have many friends anymore.

He breathes in and picks up the phone.

“Stark,” he answers.

“Sir?”

 _Good news and bad news_ , Ned thinks. The bad ones are that this call is definitely about Jeyne – he’d recognize the voice of Sergeant Jaime Lannister anywhere, and no just because he’s the one handling the case. When seeing that the son of one of the most rotten politicians (and businessmen, for that matter) in King’s Landing had actually been accepted into the ranks Ned had been skeptical, also considering that the kid was just out of the academy and barely legal, but it’s been a few years, he’s been promoted this far just out of merit and Ned has long decided that maybe his skepticism wasn’t warranted. Which is why he didn’t protest when Lannister got the case – he knows he’s competent.

The good news are that he doesn’t sound too gloomy.

“Sergeant. I suppose you’re calling about –”

“Jeyne Poole. Yes, I am. And – there are good news. And bad news. What do you want to hear first?”

“The good ones, please.”

“Well – we found her.”

“You – _you found her_? Alive?”

“Yeah,” Lannister says. “I can’t say alive and well, but that’s the bad news. I mean, she’ll be fine, I think, Brienne is with her now –”

Right. Brienne Tarth, she’s his patrol partner – they used to be in the training academy together and both got the highest rank out of the entire class.

“But – shit, I don’t even know how to put it. This is completely fucking – I’m sorry, it’s just –”

“Lannister, I don’t mind the swearing, just _say_ it.”

“Right. Well. Turns out that we caught two birds with a stone.”

“Two?”

“The so-called Flayer of King’s Landing would be the second,” Lannister says.

Ned’s blood runs cold.

“Where are you?”

Lannister tells him the address and Ned runs out of his office.

\--

The address turns out to be an old warehouse on the outskirts of Flea Bottom – there are already police cars and journalists flocking over. Ned doesn’t answer questions and runs straight into the place, finding Lannister at the entrance. And – damn, the man usually looks older than his twenty-three years, but right now his real age is all showing on his face. Never mind that the moment he walks inside the place he’s hit by a stench of – he can’t quite pinpoint it, but it’s definitely both blood and sex and something else he’s not sure he even wants to know – so strong he has to force himself not to gag.

“And this is nothing,” Lannister says. “Wait until you’ve seen the room we found her in.”

“… What’s in there?”

“Well, that bastard used to flay the corpses, didn’t he? Turns out he kept the skin. Hung up on the walls.”

“Gods,” Ned whispers. “Right. Tell me how it went before we go in.”

“Well, we had gone back to the station to look up a few leads we found out – it did look like Roose Bolton had something to do with it, or so a couple of the contacts Brienne has in that circle said, but then we got a call from some poor kid fresh out of training who was on patrol around here. He said he had ran into this scared as fuck young girl with a knife wound on her face who was crying her eyes out and screaming and saying that he had to hide her before _they came back_ , and he recognized her from the pictures on the newspaper. And he called us. We went straight away and she told us a story that – it wasn’t really easy to grasp, but from what we understood she was going to your daughter’s birthday party, someone walked up to her and knocked her out. When she woke up she was in the warehouse. Two mean-looking guys say that a nice man wanted to have a talk with her and bring her inside the main room. Where she spent the next two days. And – you really need to see it before I can go on.”

Ned swallows and follows Lannister into the room.

The first thing he sees are the pieces of skin hung on the walls like some fucking _art trophy_ , and that’s sick enough, but then he sees the second. Which is a body on the ground.

“I told the coroner to wait to bring him out. You had to see it yourself.”

And –

Ned recognizes the face even too well – Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton’s illegitimate son that his father always refused to recognize as his own. Probably because if you’re a notorious criminal who’s been smart enough to not leave evidence of that around for twenty years you don’t want a known psychopath officially related to you. Ned has been trying to prove for years that Snow was behind a lot of suspicious deaths that might have been commissioned by his father, same as nailing Roose in the first place, but he hasn’t quite managed that yet. The man isn’t stupid and he hasn’t left a shred of evidence leading directly to him yet.

But other than that, sure as hell he hadn’t suspected that Ramsay Snow also was the serial killer behind that string of murders in the last few months.

The point, though – it’s not that he’s dead. It’s that – his face is recognizable, but the rest is a mess. There are stab wounds all over – it looks like at least two or three different weapons, though all blades. The ground is completely covered in blood and it looks like someone tore at the man’s face with their nails.

“… Do we know how that happened? I don’t think Jeyne could –”

“No, she didn’t. And – we know. And we don’t.”

“… How do we know _and_ not know at the same time?”

Lannister breathes in. “She said that there was some other prisoner with him. She won’t tell the man’s real name to anyone’s face and I don’t think even your daughter might pry it out of her. Anyway, she said he had to be young, couldn’t have been older than eighteen, and that he obviously had been there for a while – she said he was dressed in rags, stank to hell and back, that he was missing two fingers on his left hand and had flaying scars everywhere that she could see. And Snow over there called him – er, Reek. I know, _I know_ , that’s messed up. Long story short, Snow spends two days taunting her that the moment his father gives the order she’ll end up like the women on the wall and treats this – Reek person like… well, like he was some kind of house pet or something. She was completely freaked out but at some point when Snow wasn’t around she tried to ask the other guy how he ended up there and his real name and all. Looks like he cracked after a day – as I said she won’t tell the name even if I think she only knows that, not his surname. He also said he had been a prisoner for some… six months or eight. She asked if he had some family searching for him and he never answered. Sometime this evening, before she ran, Snow comes back in and tells her it’s time and that she should have picked better friends, tells this Reek person to help him someway – she wasn’t too clear on that part. Anyway, Snow puts a knife on her cheek – she has a scar now but that’s all the damage to it – and at that point she says she looked at… _Reek_ , just saying the name is making me sick, for fuck’s sake, and something happened. I don’t know, maybe the guy had a moment of – of thinking that she didn’t deserve it. Or he got angry. Who can even begin to guess. But she said he just jumped on Snow from behind, clawed at his face so that he’d lose the knife, grabbed it and started stabbing at him. Then he picked a bigger one from the rack over there and finished the job. Then he told her to run and find help and that he’d be gone when she’d be back. And – she’s very adamant on not giving him out. I mean, Brienne told her that maybe we could help him if she helped us find him and she just straight out refused. I don’t think she pressed for more. Of course, the knives aren’t anywhere to be found.”

“I imagine she didn’t give a description.”

“She flat out refused that as well. So – we know how it went down, but I doubt we’re ever going to catch the guy. Unless he turns himself in. Sure as hell I’d give him a medal, though.”

Ned would like to say that it’s not something an officer should say. Snow should have been tried and arrested, and the guy should be brought in at least to give an account, but –

He looks at the room. It has been a long time since a crime scene made him feel sick the way he’s feeling right now.

“I’ve seen enough,” he says. “Just – where is she? She should probably go home, her father has been driving himself crazy and there’ll be time to straighten this out.”

“Good point. Follow me, she’s in one of the cars out back. Shit, I need a drink or twenty,” Lannister mutters before heading out.

Ned can understand that, at least.

Later, after Jeyne throws herself into his arms and breaks out crying, after he sees that she’ll always have a scar running across the left side of her face, after he, Jaime and Brienne drop her home, after he comes back home himself and throws his arms around Catelyn when she opens the door, when he’s in bed failing to sleep, he’ll think, _maybe this mess could be what helps me nail Roose Bolton once and for all_.

At the same time, he thinks all over again about what he saw in that warehouse and for the first time in his life he admits to himself that if he ever ran into that _Reek_ person, maybe he’d bring him in, but it would be hard not to let them walk free.


	2. Jon

_Five years later_

\--

Jon has barely shed off his suit jacket when someone knocks on his door on the evening of his father’s funeral. He wipes away the few tears that he somehow kept from spilling through the ceremony before opening it, and then realizes that he shouldn’t have bothered - Catelyn Stark hasn’t tried to wipe away her own, not yet.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice sounding strangled. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” he says, moving so that she can come inside. She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand before taking a chair and from the way she looks, Jon is almost afraid to ask her what’s the deal.

“Is - did something else happen?” He asks, not daring to ask if there’s some kind of problem since there _is_ \- his father (and her husband) died a week ago, of course there is.

“Not really,” she finally says. “Sit down and get over here. I can’t know if even the walls have ears.”

_In our own house_? He thinks but doesn’t say. He brings his chair over to her and sits down.

“Did your father ever mention having to discuss something with you after you turned twenty-one?” She asks, keeping her tone of voice fairly low.

“Actually – actually he did, once. He said it was important but he couldn’t say before then.”

“I told him he could have just told you straight, but - he had to honor his promises to the last comma, didn’t he.”

“His _promises_?”

She looks at him with such sad eyes that for a moment he wonders how _bad_ does this business have to be. Then she takes a nondescript brown paper package from her bag and slides it over to him.

“He did tell me that he was in danger, a month ago or so,” she goes on, her voice still so low that if he was standing at the door he wouldn’t hear her. “And he also told me – that if anything happened to him, I was to give you this. I – I know what’s inside it, but it was something that he should have told you personally and that should have stayed between the two of you. If I were you, I’d read it as soon as possible.”

“All right,” he says. “But – is it something – I mean, you don’t look much happy about it. If I can –”

“Jon, I wouldn’t look much happy about anything right now, but I just want you to know something before you open that package. You might not have the same surname as my other children, but it changes nothing, regardless of whether Ned’s alive or not. Was that clear?”

Jon nods, fighting the knot in his throat - most people don’t remember much of their earlier childhood, but he remembers the few group homes he was shipped to like some kind of package until some social worker told him that they found his real father. He was dropped off at the Starks’ when he was four going on five and they had told him that Ned Stark’s wife wasn’t his real mother, and he remembers with perfect clarity that she had just told him _welcome home_ as if it wasn’t the case.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I mean, I –”

“It’s fine,” she tells him, squeezing his shoulders. “Read it. And let me know what do you want to do about it, if you want to in the first place.”

Then she stands up and leaves, the door closing softly behind her, and Jon swallows a couple of times before opening the damned envelope. There’s another smaller one, plain white, a folder and – a key?

What?

Jon takes out the folder first – it’s paperwork from the last group home he was in, he can recognize the name on top of it, but he figures he’ll read the letter first. He opens the envelope and - it’s his father’s handwriting, indeed. He settles down on the chair and starts reading it.

_Dear Jon,_

_If you’re reading this letter, it means I wasn’t able to tell you in person, and I’m sorry for that. Maybe Cat was right and I should have just said it before the due time came, but when you read this you’ll understand why I waited this long._

_I suppose you might have always wondered who your mother was, even if you never asked us._

And yes, Jon did, but he quite never dared – also because it seemed disrespectful to bring it up in Cat’s presence, also because she didn’t seem to mind that she wasn’t his mother, so why would he have done that? Obviously she had to be dead or something like that. Right?

He reads on and his hands start to shake by the second paragraph.

\--

He finds Cat in the kitchen downstairs – she has shed her black dress for her nightgown, and he can see a few gray strands in her otherwise still bright red hair. She’s nursing half a glass of whiskey – he’s rarely seen her drink, but he can only understand why she is now.

“I read it,” he says, helping himself to the alcohol.

“You can have the whole bottle if you want,” she replies after taking a good look at him.

“Well, I might need more than a glass,” he agrees as he pours. “But – you said – what if I don’t want to do anything about it?”

“That’s your choice,” she says while he gulps down the first shot – damn, he needed it. “It’s not as if that key opens a door with _people_ behind it.”

“It wouldn’t, but – even if it did – why should I want to? It’s just – I wouldn’t know them. Considering how it went in the first place, I doubt that anyone wanted me on that side of the family anyway. It’s not – what would the point be?”

She nods and squeezes his arm. “I imagine you don’t want your siblings to know, either.”

Jon knows they wouldn’t care – they never cared that they didn’t share a mother, for fuck’s sake –, but he still shakes his head. “No. Never mind that there’s no point, but if my – if Ned -”

“You’re allowed to call him your father, you know,” she cuts him, sounding fairly amused for a moment.

“If _my father_ wanted to keep it under wraps, and I can see why he would, then it’d just put them in danger. I might go and see that manor just for closure, but – no.”

“Well, that’s what I hoped you might do,” she says after he takes another long sip from his glass. “Considering what just happened to your father and – _their_ family history, at this point I’d rather not risk attending some more funerals.”

Jon snorts along with her - it wasn’t funny and they both know that, but he’s just relieved that she doesn’t care. “Good point.”

He refills his own glass and does the same with hers.

“To Ned Stark?” He asks, trying not to cry.

“To Ned Stark,” she agrees, and doesn’t try to stop a few more tears from falling, and they toast. Robb comes into the room a few minutes later and wordlessly joins them at the table, and neither of them says a word about the envelope.

\--

“Wait, did you just say that your father was –”

“For fuck’s sake, Grenn, keep it down!” Jon hisses – maybe he should have told his friends at his own place, but it felt wrong somehow, and he had wanted it out in the open as soon as possible. And the crappy little flat that most of his friends are sharing has neighbors in the next apartment over – better not risk it. The only upside is that at least everyone seems to be a lot more enthusiastic about this entire situation than Jon himself is.

“Fine, fine,” Grenn says, bringing his tone back to a normal range. “But – wow, really? That’s just –”

“Don’t say it’s cool or he’s going to kill you at once,” Pyp interrupts, and Jon doesn’t even try to correct him.

“Maybe not,” Jon finally says, “but seriously, guys, it’s not _that_ much of a big deal. I mean –”

“Jon,” Sam interrupts, “your father being _Rhaegar Targaryen_ is kind of a big deal. Not counting his two siblings, and no one has known where they are for I don’t know, ten years? Fifteen, who knows, that’d make you the last descendant living of the oldest family in this continent. Pretty much. Just historically speaking.”

“Here comes the expert,” Ygritte snorts, handing Jon a beer. “But – _really_? You don’t look like one at all.”

“Because my _mother_ was actually my aunt? Or at least, I thought she was until now. Fuck, what a mess. Anyway, I didn’t tell you all because I wanted you to think it was cool or because I wanted Sam to share his history knowledge, I told you because I want to go to that damned manor and see if there’s anything to be found that I might want to see before I ignore that I ever knew about it in the first place, and I don’t want to do it on my own. And I was thinking of going through with it as soon as possible.”

“Wait,” Gilly says, “you want us to come with you to the Targaryen manor ruins?”

Jon shrugs. “I asked Cat to lend me her car for it. And back when we used to go on family vacations _eight people_ had to fit into it, I think we can manage. And well, yeah, who do you think I was going to ask?”

“How adorable,” Ygritte grins, taking a sip of her beer. “I vote yes. I mean, guys, exploring old creepy manors that no one has visited for years? I’m in. I’m totally in.”

Of course Pyp and Grenn are as well – the bare idea of ‘let’s spend the night doing something which is kind of maybe illegal’ is enough to sell them the prospect, and Sam relents after realizing he’ll have a chance to be inside the _Targaryen manor_ , history nerd that he is. Gilly shrugs and says that if all of them are in then she’s in as well, and Jon did come prepared, so they all get inside the minivan that Ned Stark used to drive when they’d go spend winter holidays back in the North and Jon drives towards the Red Keep.

The castle is on the outskirts of King’s Landing these days – most of it was already abandoned some twenty years ago, way before Aerys Targaryen died and his children left, the castle became utterly deserted and most of the new neighborhoods in the city were built opposite the sea, and no one will probably notice them.

“So,” Grenn asks as Jon takes the freeway that will lead them out in the outskirts, “what was the story? I mean, I remember something from history class, but –”

“You don’t remember anything, you just copied my answers during the last test and I copied them from Sam in the first place,” Pyp cuts him off.

“You’re all hilarious,” Sam sighs, figuring that he’s going to have to be the one explaining things. “The _story_ is that the Targaryens had been ruling this continent as a monarchy for centuries, at least until they got overthrown some two hundred years ago – the last king had burned alive a few union representatives asking for better working conditions in factories and it was the last straw. Also, because the more time passed the more fairly unhinged rulers you got – since they, you know, kept on marrying in between siblings or cousins. They said it was a question of keeping the line pure or some bullshit like that, but it just meant that there was one sane king every ten after centuries of inbreeding. Anyway, after they were overthrown some of them survived and they were allowed to keep the castle and a seat in the Parliament and it went on until some twenty years ago.”

“Oh, so Jon over here has to do with it?”

“Ygritte, shut up. Sam, go on and cut it short, we’re going to be there in five.”

“Right. So, uh, the thing is that they used to be kind of old-fashioned as far as marrying goes, and by that point there were just… five of them left, if I’m not wrong. Aerys Targaryen, his wife, his children. Among which – well. Uh. Rhaegar Targaryen. Who used to be on a lot of gossip magazines after he became engaged to that other noblewoman – right, Elia Martell. That until he suddenly ran off with this other girl history books never mention, which I suppose was your… mother, at this point, and no one ever knew whatever happened to them. Well. Not counting –”

“My father,” Jon sighs. “That letter said that they met at this charity ball _his_ father hosted back in Winterfell and they ran off two weeks later. Fine, he was, what, twenty-one, and she was seventeen, so they were probably both dumb kids, but still. Then it said Aerys didn’t take it well at all and my father and uncles spent the next year and a half trying to track them down. Turns out they managed to spend it on the run in motels across Essos and that _he_ had died a few months earlier. She wouldn’t say why or how. Meanwhile, they found her in a hospital – she cut herself on some rusty metal chair and got an infection that she didn’t treat until it was too late. And just before she died, she said that they had a _baby they had to give up for adoption_ and she had so little details to give about it that it took them another three years to track me down.” He speeds a bit and takes the exit for the Red Keep while no one in the car says a word.

“Right,” Sam finally says before the situation can become awkward, bless him, “while all of that was going on, Aerys Targaryen just lost it completely. He spent some fifteen years isolating himself in that castle with his wife and his two other children, or better, isolating them. While he kept his Parliament seat and tried to make sure your father’s career died at some point soon, not that he managed that.”

“Yeah, what an amazing person,” Jon mutters. “And then - what was that deal with Tywin Lannister’s son? Wasn’t that how he died?”

“Jaime Lannister? Yes, he had been given a promotion after they found Ramsay Snow –”

“Sam, I _know_ about that. Jeyne spent the next two years terrified of her own shadow. No one needs a reminder.”

“Right. So he got promoted to inspector, and he finds out that Targaryen had a bunch of his supposed subordinates on his payroll. In short, the man wanted to run for mayor and was corrupting people left and right to get some extra support, and also had corrupted a few policemen to make sure he wouldn’t be persecuted. So, Lannister finds out and instead of doing what half of the precinct would have done he goes to his former patrol partner who also works for the _Daily King’s Landing_ and spills everything. It was so well received an article he quit a few months later, but that’s not even the issue. Because not long after he spilled the beans, with Targaryen under house arrest they get a call from the manor – it was his youngest daughter telling them that her dad was about to put the city on fire or something like that.”

“How the hell do you remember all that?” Pyp asks.

“Didn’t you watch the news back in the day? It was all over, people didn’t talk about anything else for a month.”

“We were what, four? Five? Whatever, you’re the kind of dork who’d pay attention to the news under the age of ten.”

Sam thankfully doesn’t try to engage. “I was saying, Lannister and a few others get there and - no one disclosed the details, but it turns out that the guy had actually paid someone to have… explosive planted all over the city or something like that. If he had managed to make it explode, half of King’s Landing would have blown up. Lannister ended up shooting him in the back before he could do anything about that and he got acquitted – the trial wasn’t public and no one ever found out what happened for sure, but regardless, he quit the force two days later. Can’t blame him, I suppose. Aerys’ children ended up leaving with some family friend– I think they went to Essos, too, but no one’s heard of them for years.”

“Geez,” Pyp says a moment after Sam’s done, “Jon, I really hope you took after your mom’s side of the family.”

“I could laugh until tomorrow,” Jon says dryly. “And stop dicking around, we’re here.”

They got there indeed - he parks the car just outside the ruined gate of the castle. It’s still more or less up - a few towers look about to crumple down on themselves, but Jon figures that with some renovations it could make for a fairly decent museum.

“Shit,” Grenn whispers, “that’s huge.”

“And I have a key for the front door. Should we go?”

“Why, what did we come here for then?”

Good thing Ygritte has enough enthusiasm for everyone in this car, Jon thinks.

\--

The key fits in. It takes a bit of work to actually unlock the door, but when it does and they step in, Jon almost coughs his lungs out. How much fucking dust is in here anyway?

“Here,” Sam says, handing him a torch. Right. Good thing that someone thought of bringing one.

“Fine. Well, let’s go. Hopefully this is the first and last time I’ll do this,” Jon says, and turns it on.

The place is huge, indeed - it takes them at least five minutes just to walk through the main hall and up the stairs, and for the next hour or so it’s hardly exciting. Well, for the others is, but Jon just doesn’t get it – it’s just old dusty rooms, old dusty paintings of people with silver hair and purple eyes, old dusty furniture and old dusty clothes. And it’s been abandoned long enough that you can barely try to guess who used to live in the few rooms whose furniture isn’t covered with a black tarp.

“This is just sad,” he finally says after they walked through the entire first floor. “Maybe we should just give it up.”

“Like hell,” Ygritte says, “we came all the way here and you want to leave after two floors?”

“While this place is creeping me the hell out,” Gilly agrees, “she’s right. I mean, really, we came this far, you might as well see everything there is to see. Including those towers outside.”

“Fine, fine, we’re staying here until morning. Good thing this is a week-end,” Jon relents, and nothing really interesting happens until they leave the manor to see what’s in the nearest of the two towers separated from the main body of the castle – Jon is sure that they haven’t been used since the seventeenth century at least. And then, while they’re walking through the garden, Pyp trips over something.

“Shit, I was sure the way was clear - hey, wait, seven hells, _what is this_?”

Jon turns the torch to that area and –

Well, fuck, there’s a handle in the ground. A handle covered by dirt, but one nonetheless.

He leans down and pulls it up and –

There’s a secret tunnel underneath.

“This is so _cool_.”

Jon isn’t so sure he agrees with Ygritte, but - okay. Maybe it is a bit cool. If only it wasn’t completely dark.

“Guys, I don’t know –”

“Come on,” Gilly says, “you’re going to skip out on the secret passage? At worst it’s going to lead us back into the castle.”

“Fine,” he says, “but just - let’s all stay close. It’s damn dark down there.”

He breathes in and goes down the tunnel.

He understands at once it’s not going towards the castle but towards one of the towers instead, and it’s narrow enough that they all have to lean down at some point - when he finally starts to get worried that they’ll run out of air if they keep on going that much longer, he sees a door on the other end and swears to himself that wherever they end up, he’s not going to take the same way back.

“Guys, I see the door. I think we’re in the nearest tower.”

“Yeah, and _high_ , for that matter,” Pyp mutters. “I mean, we did climb up a lot.”

“Good point. Well, I’m going to open it. If it’s not locked.”

It’s not, and _of course_ the moment he opens the door, Sam’s torch dies.

“Sam, did you change the batteries before getting it?” Jon asks as he lets them in, even if it’s pitch dark and they can’t see anything. There’s not even an opened window, damn it.

“Yes, but we’ve kept it open for… four hours?”

Good point, Jon has to admit. “Great. Does anyone have matches?”

“Wait,” Grenn says, “I think I have a lighter. Here it is.” 

He lights it up, and Jon can’t see much more other than Grenn’s face, but –

“Wait, is there a switch behind you?”

“Huh, yeah. But I don’t think anyone’s paid the electricity bill lately,” Pyp says.

“Can’t hurt to try,” Jon says, and presses the switch.

And –

It works. A moment later, the entire room is bathed in neon light, and Jon’s eyes hurt for a moment, so he has to close them.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears Sam whisper a moment later. “Jon. Jon, oh, you have to see this.”

Jon turns towards the actual room, wondering what the hell is going on, and –

“No,” he says at once.

“Oh, yes,” Grenn says instead. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe we found a damned _batcave_ ,” he says, and Jon was waiting for it, but –

How else can you describe a perfectly modernly furnished room with a bunch of weapons neatly hung on the walls, what looks like a fairly complicated computer system – for the beginning of the nineties, or at least it looks like early nineties technology – and _a transparent closet holding the costume of the only masked vigilante that ever graced the streets of King’s Landing_?

“Well, damn it,” Ygritte whistles, “not only Rhaegar Targaryen was the heartthrob of his generation, he also was – how did they call him?”

“ _The terror of the Dragonpit_ ,” Sam supplies. “Because he mostly was active in the area of – well. The old Dragonpit. It was still inhabited back then and since it was mostly rich people, it tended to be full to the brink with thieves, if I don’t recall wrong. It was a terrible name, but he also didn’t hang around long enough to get a better one, I guess.”

“How long did it last?” Grenn asks as Jon moves closer to the wardrobe.

“A year? Maybe. He disappeared around the time Rhaegar Targaryen, er, eloped so I guess it makes sense. Wow. So –”

“This doesn’t mean I’m re-evaluating him,” Jon interrupts them.

For a while no one says anything as they stare at the sleek silver costume – it does look a bit like Batman’s, Jon figures. Except for the dragon sewn into the cloak, which is in fairly terrible taste if you ask him.

And then Gilly has to speak up.

“Jon, not to pry, but isn’t this about your size?”

“What? Come on, no.”

“I say yes.”

And she’s studying to become a tailor, damn it, which means she has a better eye than him.

“Come on, try it on,” Ygritte says.

“ _What_?”

“Oh, you totally should,” Pyp cheers on. What the hell.

“Guys, no, this is ridiculous. We should just go back and forget –”

“What’s the harm in trying?” Grenn presses. “Sam can go look at the computers.”

“Guys, he’s right,” Sam tries, bless him. “What if we’re found out?”

“No one found out while the guy was alive, who would find out now? Sam. Try to see if that works. What’s the harm in it?”

They try to resist, but four against two is too much and Sam relents and goes for the computers.

Jon just takes a deep breath and opens the wardrobe. Nothing happens. The costume is kevlar, in good conditions. There aren’t tears anywhere, and it’s obviously made with the idea that you have to wear clothes under it, and so he just shrugs and starts putting it on slowly.

And damn it, it might be that his biological father was about the same age as him when he used to dress like this, but it fits. It’s a bit loose, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed, he supposes.

And then -

“Guys, it works,” Sam says, awed, and they all run to the computer screens. And – they show the entire former Dragonpit neighborhood from various vantage points. It used to be in the center of the city – now no one ever passes by anymore except criminals.

“Damn,” Ygritte says, “surveillance cameras? Twenty years ago? Where did he find them?”

“Guess we all know why he was the terror of the _Dragonpit_ ,” Grenn mutters. “And by the way, Jon, that looks cool.”

“No, it looks ridiculous,” Jon says at once. “And what the fuck is this color anyway?”

“Silver is terrible,” Gilly agrees. “But black, though…”

“ _What_?”

“I’m just saying, kevlar can be painted on. And that could be adjusted to you easily.”

When Jon finds himself staring at five people who are probably all thinking the same thing, he blanches.

“Guys. No. I mean, _no_. I might have that black belt -”

“In five different martial arts,” Ygritte cuts, with a small grin.

“You aren’t suggesting what I think you are all suggesting.”

“They’re going to respect whatever you choose,” Sam thankfully cuts in, “but – Gilly has a point. That – looks cool. Or – would if it wasn’t silver. And I’m just saying, but there are already two other masks around but they’re not covering the entire city. I mean –”

“There’s the Shadow of King’s Landing who’s always around whichever gate he thinks needs surveillance and the – what’s her name, the Blue Beauty? She’s always around Visenya’s Hill, but it’s just two of them,” Pyp says not helpfully.

“Guys -”

“No one’s saying anything,” Ygritte says, not bothering to hide her grin, and Jon - Jon just takes the costume off, but as he does, he knows the seed has been planted. And he knows that they’ll spend the night here and that he’ll check every other corner of this room, and he’ll curse every minute of that –

But they do have a point. Considering the situation around the city right now – and maybe if it wasn’t a full time gig, if he even could pull that off –

_Cool_ isn’t the right word for it, he thinks as he looks at the mask he hadn’t put on, but - but maybe _honorable_ sounds somewhat best and he doesn't think that his father – the only one he’s ever going to think of as his father, anyway – would have disapproved.


	3. Robb

Three months after his father’s funeral, Robb is standing over his grave – he doesn’t even know why he decided to come here, but considering that he’ll have his first hearing in a few days and that he always thought he’d ask his father for advice about it _some time_ , and he didn’t, and he can’t do it now… well, it’s better than nothing.

“Sorry I missed the funeral,” he hears from his right side. “I was stuck in the ER that day.”

He turns to find himself in front of Jaime Lannister – right. The man used to work with his father, too, but quit the force a while ago and now he’s been working as a private investigator for some time. Robb knows that he always sends Jeyne flowers for her birthday – he was the one in charge of that investigation.

“Well, thanks for coming anyway,” Robb replies politely. “I hope it was nothing serious?”

Lannister shrugs and lights up a cigarette. “Hazards of my current line of work. It was nothing life threatening at least. And well, your father did give me a chance in the force when most people in charge weren’t too enthusiastic about my life choices, it’s not _nice_ of me. That said, what the hell are you doing out in the open?”

“What?”

Lannister takes a drag and looks straight at him.

“Kid, I don’t think the new Chief of police is going to hurry to find out for sure, but you know your father had spent all his time since Jeyne, not including the previous five years, trying to nail Bolton, and I’m sure that if someone had bothered to check his car when _investigating the crime scene_ they’d have found something wrong with the brakes. Now, fine, being a district judge in a juvenile court isn’t the same as being a cop, and fine, you’ve just started working and you’ll probably spend the next few years sending kids to community service, so I guess they might not think you’re dangerous yet, but do you really think that you should be out and about on your own?”

Robb _had_ thought about that. Sure. But – well, what the hell should he do instead?

“I see your point, but I didn’t spend years sweating on that law degree to just do nothing or sit behind a desk. And I have my first hearing in a few days, and I’m going to be there and I’ll keep on doing it. Also, it’s not like I can afford a bodyguard on my juvenile court paycheck.”

Lannister doesn’t look that convinced.

“Kid, you’d need fifteen body guards for this, but I see you’re as stubborn as your father and I probably won’t convince you to do the smart thing. Still, watch your back, you’re not going to get any help from my former colleagues.”

“I guess not. Good thing that lately someone else stepped up, then?”

Lannister openly rolls his eyes as he takes another drag, then lets out a laugh that has no mirth in it. “Well, I don’t know about that, but at least they’re making me earn some money without putting work into it.”

“Wait, who, the three masked vigilantes? Really?”

“You wouldn’t believe. Mostly people whose asses they saved who want to know who they are to thank them and at least pay me for wasting my time, because then I have to inform them that I can’t exactly find out the identity of people who _run around the city in masks_ since I guess the point is that they don’t want others to find out. Sure, the last one who popped up might be interesting and I might look into it if someone comes asking, just because it’s weird that there was someone going around with a similar costume some twenty years ago, but then the guy disappeared and now someone wearing the updated version of that outfit saves kittens from trees back in Blackwater Bay. But still, it’s _three people_ who aren’t operative in the places where most people actually live. And how many are in this city in the first place, five million? You’d better watch your back. I hope you own a gun, at least.”

“I can’t shoot worth a damn. And I hate guns.” Robb shrugs.

Lannister shakes his head. “You’re hopeless. Just pay attention, won’t you?”

Then he tips his hat at the grave and walks back towards the entrance of the graveyard.

Robb knows he’s right, but – well. He’ll take his chances. Now he has to go to a fucking tailor because he doesn’t own any of what his mother deems _work-appropriate clothes_ , and fine, his current paycheck only allows him to rent a fairly nice three-rooms apartment in Flea Bottom of all places – his apartment is probably the only nice perk about the neighborhood or the building –, but he does have some money from his father’s inheritance now, and he figured he could afford to get a tailored suit or three at shop where his father used to go to.

He looks at the grave again, tries to bite back tears and goes back to the entrance, then he goes back to his car. He thinks about what Lannister said about the brakes on his father’s, and he double checks the doors and the trunk before turning on the key and driving off to the tailor’s.

\--

“I’m very sorry about your late father, Mr. Stark,” the man, Petyr Baelish, says as he takes Robb’s measures.

Robb doesn’t really like the guy. He doesn’t sound halfway sincere and he doesn’t know why his parents only went to him when they needed tailored clothes, but he grits his teeth and smiles politely.

“Thank you,” he says, “that’s much appreciated. But there’s not much to do other than going on with life, right?”

“Indeed, Mr. Stark,” Baelish agrees as he writes down his measures on a sheet. “So, what do you need this suit for?”

“Well, I have a hearing in a week. And at this point I’d rather have three made since I guess I’ll need them in the future. Just for work, though, I really don’t like wearing formal clothes that often.”

“They can be uncomfortable, indeed. Well, I already have a few ideas. If – oh, it’s not here. _Harlaw_ , bring the samples over, already! Didn’t I tell you to have it ready before four PM?”

“I’m – I’m coming!”

The person answering is in the next room over and Robb can hear someone opening a drawer and then another.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Baelish sighs, “I’ve had this trainee for a while and well, he’s good at sewing so I keep him around but he’s such a disaster sometimes.”

Robb doesn’t like the tone at all, never mind that he knows what ‘keeping trainees around’ means most times – he’s worked on a lot of cases like this back when he was a trainee himself. Most probably the guy needs work really bad and Baelish hired him with a temp contract without benefits, and now he refuses to upgrade him to a real one.

“It’s fine, I’m not in a hurry.”

And – a moment later the door opens and a man about Robb’s age runs over to them with an opened sample case full of clothing, his hands slightly trembling. Robb notices that he doesn’t have two fingers on his left hand by the way his glove hangs loose, but then he doesn’t pay attention to it anymore because the guy – fine, he has bags under his eyes and is wearing old clothes that have been mended more than once, but overall… he’s pretty much Robb’s type, or Robb’s type as far as guys go. His dark hair, neck-length, frames a face with regular traits, a pair of nicely full lips over pale skin, and his eyes – Robb wishes the guy didn’t look kind of just – sad, because he does have some really nice dark ones that match his hair perfectly, and the dark, long lashes don’t hurt either.

Too bad that he can’t exactly hit on the guy now, can he?

“Oh, _finally_.”

Robb can see the guy biting back something, but then he just shrugs and moves over to the side.

“So,” Baelish says, “looking at you, I think that classic would be the best choice. A nice black jacket and pants, white shirt, stylish but simple, what do you think?”

Robb has no idea – to be honest, he didn’t _want_ a black suit, not when he still remembers his father’s funeral like it was yesterday, and when he doesn’t even like black that much, but if the expert says it’d be the best choice…

And then he sees the trainee’s face in the mirror. For a moment, his face takes a completely disgusted expression, but then he schools it into neutrality again.

Robb thinks he might want another opinion.

“Well, I guess. I don’t really know anything about suits or clothes and my sister always says I can’t dress worth a damn. But maybe your trainee has another suggestion? I didn’t want three suits looking all the same.”

Baelish’s face almost becomes comical – he looks completely surprised at the fact that Robb asked someone other than him.

The trainee, instead, looks surprised for other reasons. Robb has done enough pro bono volunteering in university to recognize the look of someone who’s usually never asked for his opinion.

“What – really? I mean, I have an idea or two, but –” the guy starts, and Robb thinks he has a really nice voice on top of that.

“Why, share then. At worse I won’t like them, but I like to listen to everyone,” he says, turning towards him so they’re face to face.

The man swallows. And then. “Well, black looks good on everyone, so you wouldn’t go wrong. That said – maybe also – charcoal could be a nice choice. I mean, the suit should be charcoal, maybe a three-piece, with a white shirt and a dark red tie. And – you said three?”

“I said three.”

“Uh, dark blue could also work. Very dark blue, and the tie should be the same. But the shirt should be – azure or pale blue. Or if you don’t like blue – a white shirt with a dark green suit and a red tie would also look nice on you, Mr. Stark, but of course it’s just a suggestion –”

“I think I like all three,” Robb cuts him before Baelish can.

“Wait – what, really?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I? I can see it working. And since I’m here – well, Mr. Baelish, I guess I can just go ahead and get myself four and be done with it. A black one as you said, because I suppose it can’t hurt to have one, and three the way – hey, what’s your name?”

The man’s eyes go wide for a moment. Then –

“Theon. Theon Harlaw, Mr. –”

“That’s Robb for anyone who looks my age, please. I already feel a fish out of water enough since people have started calling me _Mister_. Anyway, I was saying, three the way Theon over there said? So I will be covered for a while.”

Baelish looks livid, but then he smiles and is all niceties again. “But of course. I guess that they might be ready in five days, if it’s fine by you.”

“Of course.”

“Would you rather pay later or now? It’s the same to me of course, considering that your father always came here –”

“I would rather have it out of the way now, thank you. I start working for real tomorrow and when I come back I’ll probably be dead tired, it’s better if we settle it now.”

“Well then, I will do the math and be back in a moment.” Baelish leaves and Robb is relieved – damn, he really doesn’t like the guy.

And then –

“He’s going to rob you,” Theon says quietly, low enough that only Robb can hear it.

“Uh, what?”

“He’s not doing that math in front of you, is he? I mean, including the handwork and so on, four suits with the materials in that sample should cost you some three hundred bucks each, but he’s going to ask you at least three hundred and seventy. He never did that with your father but he does it with other people, and just – I’ve been working here for a year, I understand when he’s about to do it.”

The last sentence drips with so much sarcasm Robb thinks Baelish might have needed ice for that burn if he had been here to hear it, but – he actually likes it a lot. He smiles a bit. “Well, thanks for the information, but I guess I can afford it. I suppose that none of the extra money he charges me is going to go into your paycheck, right?”

Theon’s eyes go slightly wide. “How –”

“I studied law, I’ve seen endless cases like this. And I guess you’re going to do the most of the work, won’t you?”

Theon shrugs. “Well, probably. But it’s fine. Guess it’s a living.”

“Can’t argue. But you definitely have a better eye than him when it comes to clothes.”

“… Seriously?”

“I’m not in the habit of lying to people.”

And – at that Theon does crack a small smile, enough that his eyes light up a tiny bit, and damn but Robb thinks he might be smitten. “Well, don’t tell him, but I thought that dressing you like you were about to go into a funeral or some boring as fuck dinner party when you just said you hated formal clothes was a fucking bad idea.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that reasoning,” Robb agrees, and then they look at each other and it seems like Theon is about to say something, but –

Baelish walks back in with the total, which is exactly what Theon had said it would be, but Robb signs a check anyway and doesn’t argue. If anything because it means that next time he’ll have an excuse to see the guy again, right?

When he leaves, he shakes both Baelish and Theon’s hands and he can’t help noticing that Theon’s, other than having extremely rough skin, also has a very strong grip. For a moment, it had almost hurt, but Robb forgets it a moment later and drives back to court – he has paperwork to do.

\--

_I’m an idiot_ , he thinks hours later as he walks out of his car in complete darkness. _Lannister was right when he said I have no self-preservation or whatever it was _. Of course it took him more than usual to do the paperwork and he hasn’t realized that it was past ten PM until the janitor came to his door and told him they had to close.__

__So he drove back home, but of course Flea Bottom is the only area in the old town which hasn’t been abandoned yet – the contrary, for that matter – also because it’s cheap, and you can’t find a place to park easily near your street. So he had to park some five minutes away from his house. And he can see that there are no streetlights on again – sounds like the mayor decided to cut their electricity, not that it’s even the first time. Shit. He shouldn’t be out and about in these circumstances._ _

__Still, maybe he’s just overreacting. He grabs his briefcase, shuts the car’s door, closes it and heads home, keeping his keys in hand just in case. For a bit things go fairly fine, even if no one is around and it’s weird, there’s always someone up and about at this time of the night, and then he turns into a small alley that will bring him home faster and –_ _

__“Got held up at work, _Stark_?”_ _

__Shit. There are some six people in front of him, all with their faces hidden by a dark ski mask, and when he turns to the other side of the alley he sees another three closing the only way out._ _

__“Maybe. And who cares?” He asks, clutching his keys and trying not to lose his calm. Even if he has no reasons to stay calm, at most he could take out two people using the keys, but this is nine. He’s never going to get out of here in one piece._ _

__“Someone who thinks that if you had been wiser you’d have chosen a different line of work,” the guy replies, moving closer._ _

__Robb says nothing and waits. Maybe if he takes one out the others might be distracted and he could try sneaking out._ _

__“I don’t think juvenile justice is the same line of work as my fater,” Robb says, taking a step back._ _

__“Yeah, well, it’s still too close. Nothing personal,” the guy says, and takes a switchblade knife out of his pocket._ _

__Robb stabs him in the eye with the key, and _that_ goes about as well as it can go, but not minding the man screaming and the blood spurting all over Robb’s hand, the other eight don’t get distracted, and at the first kick in the stomach he gets Robb is already resigning himself to his own turn in the ER in the best of cases (he really hopes his mother won’t have to go to his funeral a month after his father’s), but then –_ _

__“Eight against one? Seems unfair.”_ _

__The next kick never arrives._ _

__“Shit,” one of the men says, “is there _another_ of those vigilante freaks?”_ _

__Robb moves on his knees, now that they haven’t been looking at him, and – there’s someone standing in the alley, who has knocked out for good the man that Robb stabbed at with the keys first. He’s wearing an old, dirty trench coat, an equally old fedora and a weird black and white mask – weird because the colors shift somewhat. He also stinks of trash – you can hear the smell from where Robb is lying. And the voice – the voice is strange. It’s obvious that the man is faking it, he can’t have that low of a tone in real life, but the rasp isn’t exactly suggesting that he wants to play nice._ _

__“Maybe,” the man says, and then he takes a step forward and punches the next thug over so hard that blood comes out of his nose and the man topples over with a scream._ _

__“Get him,” the other thug, probably the second in command, says, and then –_ _

__Then –_ _

__Robb doesn’t even know how to put it into words, but the moment all seven of them jump on him, the man laughs and then –_ _

__He doesn’t even have weapons on him, not that Robb can see, but first he kicks one of them in some place that must hurt, since he topples to the side with a howl, he does the same with another two, twists free of the hold one of the others had on him after throwing his head back against the man’s teeth and twisting his arm hard enough to break it, and then he’s flanked by the remaining four._ _

__First he grabs one’s arm and twists again – the thug howls, and then he throws the man against one of the others, and the first thug was fucking _twice the size_ of Robb’s unlikely guardian angel. While the third guy tries to get the other’s body off him, the man turns towards the other two left – he kicks one in the groin and slams the other against the wall with such strength that he passes out instantly. And then the last guy has freed himself, but he’s still on the ground – the vigilante (or whatever he is) is on him in a moment and kicks him in the side of his face._ _

__Robb isn’t even sure that the guy might have survived that if not for the shallow rise of the man’s chest._ _

__He swallows and stands back up on his feet._ _

__“Shouldn’t be out at night,” the other man rasps, black blots swirling over his mask._ _

__“I – I – _thank you_ ,” Robb says instead of acknowledging that he was doing a pretty stupid thing. “I just – I don’t think I could have –”_ _

__“It’s fine,” the man cuts him. “Be more careful next time.”_ _

__“I – I will.”_ _

__And then the guy turns his back on him, and –_ _

__“Wait!”_ _

__The man turns. “What?”_ _

__“At least tell me your name?”_ _

__The man lets out a laugh that has no mirth in it. “Really?” He asks, but it’s low enough that Robb barely hears it._ _

__“Yes, _really._ You saved my life, and if you don’t want me to tell anyone I won’t, but I want to know your name at least.”_ _

__For a moment, there’s no answer._ _

__Then._ _

__“Reek,” the guy says, and then he disappears in the darkness of the next alley. Robb runs after him, but by the time he gets there he’s already gone._ _

___What the fuck_ , he thinks, _what kind of name is that_?_ _

__Then he remembers he’s surrounded by nine unconscious thugs, who were about to kill him._ _

__He runs home and calls the police – not that he thinks they’ll help any, but at least they’ll clear the street, and he keeps on wondering _why_ did that name sound kind of familiar somewhat._ _


	4. Jaime

Not that he doesn’t like to be proved right at any given time, but when, the day after he talked to the kid on his father’s grave, Robb Stark walks inside Jaime’s small office looking like someone who received a fairly thorough beating, with bruises on his face and a fairly gloomy air to himself, he decides that maybe this is an exception to the rule.

“Stark,” he says, standing up from behind his chair and opening the window – he’s not going to crush one of his few cigarettes left, not when he’s trying to quit, but the guy probably doesn’t need his secondhand smoke right now. “What brings you to my little abode?”

“You were right,” Stark replies, “about more than one thing. And I might need your services.”

“Really. Well, all things considered, I might even make you a discount if I decide I can take your case. So, I was right about what?”

“People being out to get me and the police not caring.”

Jaime suddenly wants another cigarette the moment he’s finished with this one, but if he has to quit this is not how he’s going to accomplish it, so he goes to the small fridge he keeps in the corner of the office and takes out two beer bottles.

“You look like you need a drink, which means that _I_ might need a drink when you’re done. Here. Go ahead and spill, and sorry for the mess but I can’t exactly afford a secretary.”

“It’s fine,” Stark says before taking a sip from the bottle. “Right. Yesterday I was coming back from work late at night – I got sidetracked. I parked five minutes from my place and nine people ambushed me.”

“ _Nine_?”

“And they said that I chose a career too similar to my dad’s. I suppose they wanted to end it.”

“Wait, how did you fight off nine people?”

“I didn’t. Someone else took care of it.”

“One of those vigilantes? Kid, I already told you, if they don’t want to be known –”

“He wasn’t one of the three ones that end up on the newspapers all the time, though. Anyway, I called the police – they arrested them all, the ones who didn’t need a trip to the hospital, but they said that I was _seeing too much into it_ and that I live in a dangerous area and that I should give them details of the person who helped me.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Smart thinking. So, who was your guardian angel? Again, if it’s a new one the answer might be the same I always have. These people aren’t interested in –”

“That’s not what I want to know. I don’t care for finding out who he is. If he doesn’t want me to, I respect it. I just – I want you to find out who wants me dead.”

For a moment, Jaime doesn’t know what to answer – that’s new, people usually die to know who saved their hide, and Stark could ask a lot of other people before coming to him, but – it’s still a fairly more reasonable request than going after vigilantes.

“Well then, okay, let’s hear it. What was up with the guy?”

“He looked fairly young – I mean, I guess, since he took out eight of them. It was like watching some freaky martial arts movie, except a lot less… nice-looking. I mean, I could hear bones crunching and a few of those thugs ended up comatose. Anyway, he wasn’t _that_ tall or well built, not outwardly at least. He wore this old trench coat, an old hat and a weirdass white mask with black inkblots that moved around his face. Maybe it’s cloth that reacts to heat. But – the thing was that – he stank.”

“ _Stank_.”

“A lot. He smelled like he had just walked out of a trashcan. And – when I asked him his name – he said it was _Reek_ , which was already weird for – hey, what’s wrong?”

“He was named _what_?”

“He said Reek. Why?”

Jaime drinks half of his bottle in one go. 

“I’m taking the case,” he says without even wanting to hear the rest.

“What –”

“It’s a long story. But it has to do with an old investigation and – did your father ever tell you about Roose Bolton’s bastard son in detail?”

“The psycho who had killed a lot of women and kidnapped Jeyne at some point? Well, yes, of course, when she disappeared everyone was worried like crazy, but –”

“Did she – or your father – ever tell you who saved her that night?”

“She never talks about it.”

Jaime breathes in and drinks some more of that beer. He needs something stronger.

“’Course she wouldn’t. Well, it was a guy that the psycho had prisoner or something. We never managed to track him down. And she said Snow called him _Reek_.”

Stark’s eyes go very, very wide. “Wait, you mean – the guy who saved me could be the one who saved Jeyne years ago?”

“I’m not _saying_ anything, but I want in on this if anything to shake the guy’s hand, smelling like trash or not.” And he’s perfectly serious as he says it – he’s had nightmares about that damned night for years. If you ask him, the guy just did the world a favor, and he had hoped someone would track him down if anything because it looked like _he_ also would have needed some help after that stint. No one ever did, though. “So, tell me more about the people who ambushed you.”

Stark drinks some more of his beer and goes on, looking impossibly young as he does, and for a moment Jaime gets a painful reminder of how he used to look back when he enrolled in the force, before Ramsay Snow, before Aerys Targaryen and when he still thought the police had some principles, even if buried really deep. Yeah, right.

He takes notes, figuring that he might go visit a few of the arrested guys in the hospital – his cousin Addam works at the one where Robb said they brought them, and owes him a few favors anyway, he’ll sneak Jaime in. That’s not going to be a problem.

That said, the fact that no one even tried to take Stark’s story seriously is mildly worrying – fine, he knows that the moment his father pulled some strings and put fucking Janos Slynt in Ned Stark’s place things had gone to complete shit, but this is just beyond reasonable.

“Right,” he tells Stark when he’s done telling him the details of the story for the second time, “I’ll look into this and let you know – I didn’t have jobs lined up anyway.” Actually he had – some businessman who wants him to find proof that his wife is cheating on him, but he’ll just refuse it – he can’t half-ass this one job and when he figured he’d put his training to _this_ use, he was hoping for something different.

“Thank you,” Stark says, sounding like he means it. “If you want to be paid at least half upfront –”

“You only owe me the first consultation fee, otherwise it’s daily. And I don’t know how long this is going to take me.”

Stark nods and starts writing a check carefully, as if his fingers hurt. His knuckles are actually bruised.

“By the way,” Jaime says as he takes the check, “you _really_ don’t want to go around on your own without some kind of weapon. You can’t shoot a gun? Fine, get a taser. Or pepper spray or _something_ , because if nine people ambushing you wasn’t enough to start an investigation not even someone managing to kill you will, so either you get a bodyguard or you start helping yourself out.”

“I figured that,” Stark sighs, and stands up with a hiss.

“Are you sure you don’t have broken bones?”

“No. They kicked me some, but _he_ showed up before it could get really bad.”

“Good thing guardian angels exist then, even if they don’t smell like roses. Go home, Stark. Take a couple days off. And don’t be an idiot. I’ll call you when I have something.”

“Thank you,” Stark says before grabbing the beer bottle and bringing it with him. He closes the door without slamming it on his way out and Jaime hopes that he follows that advice and doesn’t go back to work without having taken a few days off.

Knowing his father, it’s probably not a safe guess.

He shakes his head, looks down at the notes and figures that he’ll visit all of the hospitalized thugs first before they’re shipped off to jail before calling Brienne – she’ll want to know regardless – and so he dials Addam’s number and calls on that favor.

Except that the moment Addam checks the database he says that the guys were checked out this morning and transferred to some other clinic, and he’ll tell Jaime the name just because he owes him, and when Jaime hears it… it was one of the private clinics his father owns, if he hasn’t sold it in the meantime. Jaime has a hunch that it’s not the case.

Well, _shit_ , he’s going to need to call the cavalry before he had thought he would.

He opens his desk drawer, grabs one of the three disposable cellphones he has in there, turns it on and sends a text making sure that it’s going to look as if it’s from an unknown number.

_We need to talk. Urgent. Same place, same time_.

He only has to wait a minute or two.

_Fine._

Nothing else, but he doesn’t need any more – he turns down the phone, takes out the SIM card and throws it in the trash. He’ll dispose of the phone later.

Yeah, she’ll want to know for more than one reason.

\--

“We need to find a less seedy bar,” Brienne says as she sits in front of him, not taking off the blue scarf she has tied around her neck and that covers half of her face. Not that Jaime thinks it’s much use to keep her identity hidden – Clegane owns the bar and he knows her, but he figures she has her reasons.

“Why, this is perfectly functional and has been until now, hasn’t it?”

“Right, sure, and how about you tell me _why_ you used the disposable cell phone? We could have met normally.”

“Not for this we couldn’t have. Do you know what happened to Robb Stark?”

“The Daily King’s Landing ran a piece on it. It was at the bottom of the second page in the city news. I said I could take it and they said I was too personally involved with his dad, so no story for me. How about it?”

“Well, sounds like he came to me because he wants to find out who wants him dead and the force won’t help him out.”

“I don’t doubt that. And?”

“The guy who saved his ass.”

“How about him?”

“He told Stark his name was _Reek_. Does that remind you of anything?”

From the way her huge, misshapen lips grow thinner in a moment, he knows it does.

“Reek.”

“Apparently he also smelled like a dumpster. I accepted – I guess you might know why.”

She looks at him, grabs his glass of rhum and drinks half of it in one go. Jaime doesn’t even crack a joke about her stealing his alcohol when she doesn’t even drink as a general rule – he only understand too well what’s the issue here.

“It can’t be anyone else, can he,” she says after a long, long moment of silence.

“How many other people can fit that description?”

“Fine, that was a stupid question,” she agrees.

“Wait, are you actually agreeing with me at once? Are you feeling sick?”

“Shut up,” Brienne replies without bite. “But it was a stupid question. It has to be him.”

“It has to. And do you want to know something interesting?” He steals back his drink while Brienne takes a sip from her Coke, even if it looks like she’s doing that just because she actually paid for it and not because she wants it.

“Go ahead.”

“Before calling you, I thought I’d call a few favors with Addam and go ask a few questions to the people our friend Reek put in a hospital – they were at the one he works at, anyway. Turns out he’d have let me, but this morning someone signed their release forms and transferred them into a private clinic.”

“And you couldn’t get in there? I thought you had more resources than that.”

“Hilarious. I could have gotten in anywhere else, but not when _my father_ owns that clinic.”

He finishes his glass without looking at Brienne – not that it’s working if he wants to avoid her staring at him with worry, since when he looks back at her she’s still sending him a fairly concerned look. Right. She’d know.

“Well,” she says carefully, “ _you_ couldn’t get inside without trouble, I suppose, but someone else might.”

“ _Someone else_ might,” he agrees as he slips his napkin with the name written on it towards her. She takes it and slips it into her pocket.

“I imagine this is not something that should end up on the paper,” Brienne says after it’s safely tucked away.

“Maybe after it’s over and done it might give you a promotion,” Jaime says, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I wasn’t thinking to write anything about it, actually. By the way, I know it’s probably not a good idea, but if that _Reek_ is back in the picture, maybe we should ask Jeyne Poole again? I mean, it’s been years, maybe -”

Jaime shakes his head. “Maybe, but she’s currently in Essos for her exchange student year or so her mother told me when I wanted to send her something for her birthday. I can’t afford going there, and asking through the phone - we could do that, but she’s been through too much shit back in the day to bring it up now, never mind that she might not even want to tell us anyway. And who knows if someone might bug my phone at some point. We can, but I’d use it as a last resort.”

Brienne thinks about it for a moment, but doesn’t fight him on it. “You’re right. Again. This is starting to be worrying. Well then – right. Be in your office at dawn.”

“… _Dawn_? What kind of hours do –”

“Don’t finish that sentence. At dawn. And I might have news about our friend _Reek_ in a few days, too, if everything goes as planned.”

“Wait, what, planned?”

Brienne laughs and moves closer, enough that no one else could hear what she says next. “We knew there was someone new around. But not the name or how they operated. Do you think that we don’t have a bare minimum of organization?”

Then she moves away, finishes her coke and stands up.

“It was nice catching up. And quit the damned cigarettes already.”

She’s gone before he can tell her that he has almost quit, thank you very much, and he figures he’s going to brace himself for spending the night out and about if he has to be in his office at the crack of dawn.

He could do with a damned cigarette right now.

“Still haven’t told her?”

“Fuck you, Clegane,” Jaime says without any bite as the owner of the place drops sitting in front of him – he used to work for Jaime’s own father once upon a time, and quit not long after Jaime decided he was done with being in the police. Jaime wonders sometimes how he lasted _that_ long, considering what he had to do to earn his living. But anyway, going from his prissy nephew’s bodyguard to owning a seedy bar in Flea Bottom, the second alternative sounds a lot less stressful if you ask Jaime.

And fine, it’s not like they became friendly or anything since Jaime started going to his bar, not that Jaime has that many friends in the first place, but it’s the closest they both get to it, probably, and so he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“Lannister, you were mooning after that woman back when your father sent me to _keep an eye on you_ while you two were still low enough in the food chain to patrol at nights.”

“I wasn’t,” Jaime denies.

“My ass,” Clegane replies, not impressed with Jaime’s most probably not convincing lying. “By the way, was this about Ned Stark’s death?”

Jaime almost drops the glass he was twirling between his hands just to have something to do with them.

“And how would you know _that_?”

“You two meet here just when you need information or _she_ needs information, not when you’re remembering the good old times in the King’s Landing PD.”

Which is also true. Well, Clegane _does_ know people, considering his current line of work, and he knew them from before as well. And considering that Jaime’s father has to be implied in this, well, at this point he might as well spill some – it’s probably not standard behavior as far as client confidentiality goes, but Jaime is plenty sure that Clegane hates Jaime’s family as much as he does, so he’s not probably putting anyone in danger.

“Let’s say that Ned Stark’s kid got ambushed in an alley by nine people and was saved by one of those whacky vigilantes that are so hot right now. But that’s not the point – the point is that the guy landed six of them in a hospital wing and nighttime they were transferred to a private clinic. Owned by my illustrious father.”

Clegane gives him a sharp nod. “So you want to know if I’m in contact someone who might have information about that little stint?”

“That, too. Mostly, someone who might have an idea of why Ned Stark crashed his car, because I don’t really buy it was an accident. And while my illustrious father has to be involved I doubt he was alone.”

“We’ll see. How is Stark the younger?”

“He’ll live. By the way, hasn’t anyone here talked about this new vigilante guy?”

“If you mean the _latest_ one, someone might. But they’re all scared shitless.”

“… As in?”

“They hadn’t met him in the flesh. Some of their friends had, though, and they all got out of that meeting with fucking broken bones.”

Sounds legitimate, Jaime thinks, considering what he remembers of Ramsay Bolton’s corpse. At least it looks like the guy might still need help but at least he’s on the right side. More or less.

“Well, I’ll drop by in a couple of days. If it turns out that you know someone –”

“I’ll see,” Clegane cuts him short.

Jaime stands up and leaves – no point in staying there and give in to the temptation of getting drunk out of his mind.

As he walks back to his office, he tries to list his options again. If Tyrion hadn’t decided he was even more done than Jaime was and hadn’t moved to Essos a few years ago he could have called and see if he was amenable to either sneak him into the company offices or to check a few things for him, but he’s not. And he’s not ever going to try and call Cersei – he’s completely done with _that_ part of his life.

So if it’s not his family it has to be the police – he’s fairly sure that Inspector Mormont is still in the KLPD, he was too honest for his career to take off after the grade he reached, and he was one of the few people who didn’t want his head after Aerys. Maybe at least he can try and give him a hint about what Ned Stark was working on when his car crashed.

He speeds up – maybe if he calls now he can still go talk to Mormont before his shift is done.

\--

The sky is still purple when he hears a knock on his window. He forces himself to wake up – he fell asleep at his desk, blame him – and goes to open it. The moment he’s out of the way, someone slips in and Jaime envies her for managing to be so silent when she has an inch on him and isn’t certainly someone you don’t notice.

“I hope you had a better night than mine,” he says.

Brienne takes off her gray mask – it’s a part of her granddad’s aviator outfit, the guy was in the army in the beginning of the 20th century, and according to her it’s entirely functional and not hindering. Jaime thinks he’d be gasping for breath the entire time, but good for her if it’s not the case. It does go fairly well with her long, blue coat that hides nondescript black clothes whose only point is being comfortable to climb buildings in.

(Jaime is never going to forget the time he found out that _she_ was, in fact, the vigilante that the press – including her own paper – had dubbed _Blue Beauty_ , which is an entirely dumb as fuck name. Mostly because it happened when he had almost gotten mugged himself after getting wasted in a fairly seedy bar the day after quitting the KLPD, and he recognized her from the way she had punched the motherfucker. She hadn’t even tried to deny it when he confronted her.

There are _reasons_ why Jaime always refuses any case asking him to find out the vigilantes’ identities.)

“Depends on what you mean by good,” she says, sounding fairly out of breath.

“Well, I went back to the precinct to talk to Mormont – figured he might give me hints about what Ned Stark was working on. He said he didn’t know anything and the investigation was closed in three days, and that he also thought was bullshit, but the paperwork disappeared the week after they closed the investigation. But he did say that as far as he knew, Stark was still bent on nailing Bolton. Might be that he could have managed it?”

“Forget about might. He did.”

“He _did_?”

“I only managed to talk to one of our men before I heard people coming and I had to leave. He wasn’t the leader – that one was under lock and key – but looks like he told them that Robb Stark had to be _dealt with_ , same as his father. I asked him what was the deal with his father. Seems like he had found out something he shouldn’t have and they were supposed to search out Robb Stark’s apartment later looking for some files proving it, but clearly that was all our guy knew.”

The only good thing is having the confirmation, Jaime figures. “So they’re going to try it again. And they obviously think he has some copy of his father’s evidence.”

“Without doubts.”

“And that idiot doesn’t even own a weapon,” Jaime says without even managing to sound angry. “Also if the paperwork related to both Ned’s death and his case has vanished into thin air it might have been destroyed by now.”

“True, but he didn’t make Chief Inspector because he was an idiot, Jaime. We said it before, if they think there’s a copy of those files they’ll be looking for it and he surely had a back-up somewhere. Maybe he doesn’t have it himself, but you should ask Robb Stark if he can check around the house?”

“I can,” Jaime agrees, “but you knew the man. Would he have left that kind of paperwork in the house where his family lives and put them in danger like that?”

“… That’s a good point. But mentioning it can’t hurt.”

“I’ll call him and see if I can get a lead on that after I get some sleep. By the way, are you sure you don’t want a drink or –”

“No. It’s already too late and the last thing anyone needs is a sighting of me in costume climbing out of your window. I’ll let you know if I have any news.”

“Fine, wench, fine, I’ll do the same.”

“Don’t you get _tired_ of that joke, Lannister?”

“Me? Never.” He’ll always remember fondly the time he convinced her to hit some small town near King’s Landing in which people were putting on a Middle Ages reenactment and he ended up calling her like that after three bottles of fairly strong beer. 

She shakes her head, puts her mask back on again and climbs out of the window and down towards the ground - he knows that she’s climbed higher buildings, but he’s still somehow glad that his office is on the third floor.

It’s too fucking early for the two cigarettes per day he has allowed himself until his last pack runs out, so he just throws himself on the sofa and figures he’ll sleep for an hour or so before calling Robb Stark and sharing the news - hopefully the man’s phone won’t be bugged.

Meanwhile he thinks he’d like to know what Brienne meant with _we have a bare minimum of organization_ before, in the bar, but it’s too fucking early for that, too.


	5. Sandor

It’s not that Sandor had purposefully overheard Tarth and Lannister’s conversation. It’s not even that owning a bar makes you somewhat attuned to paying attention to what your patrons are saying at any given moment, especially when you don’t exactly close up shop after midnight. 

It’s that if Lannister and Tarth meet _here_ it means that there’s serious business going on – they think they’re being subtle, or better, Lannister thinks they are. Sandor is pretty sure that Tarth knows about his secret nighttime job, and she knows Sandor knows about hers – they did meet a fair amount of times in the last year. He had recognized her from the height and bulk, and he’s sure she must have seen his face at some point. And the fact that she kept on coming here even after they inadvertently teamed up once while trying to nail the same gang of meth sellers means that she _wants_ him to know about what they’re cooking up.

Which is why he sits down in front of Lannister when she leaves and pretends he hadn’t been paying attention when he asks what’s been going on. Lannister shrugs and tells him, not that Sandor hadn’t imagined any different from what he hears. The only part he hadn’t taken into account was that new weird as fuck stinking guy being involved into it, but he figures a new mask being around is the least of anyone’s problems. Especially considering that in the few weeks he’s been out and about he has about cleansed off a quarter of the enforcers Bolton sent to Flea Bottom to do his business – stinking of trash or not, most of the shop owners of the area would probably pitch in to build the man a shrine.

When he tells Lannister he’ll see if he _knows someone_ , he’s maybe lying – it’s not that he doesn’t know anyone, but he’s hardly going to ask his former co-workers. It’s not the kind of information they’d share with him, not after he quit anyway – he’s as much persona non grata around Casterly Rock as much Jaime himself is. Still, he can try to find someone who might have some information – all his former coworkers hang out at the Lion Gate, how imaginative of them, at least the ones still in King’s Landing. It’s not like Tywin Lannister sets foot out of Casterly, these days, if it’s not to reach his Parliament seat when the bill of the day is something relevant to his interests.

It’s also a slow day, thankfully, which means that no one protests when he closes up shop at eleven thirty in the evening and walks out of the back with the lapels of his coat pulled tight around his face. Not that he’s ever tried to hide much - he’s never seen the point in masks, even if he never goes out of the way to show his face. Then again, they didn’t dub him _the shadow of King’s Landing_ for fucking nothing - it’s just that he knows how to stick to the dark corners and he knows the entire area of the gates so well that no one will see his face if he doesn’t want them to.

He lights a cigarette and smokes it on his way to the Lion Gate - not his usual patrol, it should have been the Old Gate today, but this is more urgent. He keeps himself next to the old walls, good thing they haven’t tore them down back when the city expanded way past them, but there’s a reason why these days the old center is in the outskirts and the only place with a lot of tenants is Flea Bottom, and that’s because the rent is very low. He’s also fairly surprised to see that no one is around – if anything, kids sell weed around here and you always see the random highschooler smoking a joint while sitting on some old rock that should be in a museum and not in the middle of the road.

He takes a few drags and moves back into the shadows, figuring that he’ll wait until midnight to see if maybe he’s just too early - but then he hears a bus coming. Right, there’s a few passing by here, even if the last ride is in half an hour – usually whoever takes them now is going in the other direction.

Just one person gets off the bus, and –

Wait a fucking moment.

She’s young – very young, can’t be older than sixteen from what he sees. Also she has bright red hair tied up in a bun, and she’s dressed with nondescript nice clothes – her coat might be plain black, but it’s certainly no hand me down. What in the seven hells is that kind of girl doing here at this hour?

Then she turns towards him, even if she doesn’t see him since he’s hiding fairly well, and –

Damn it, it’s _Sansa Stark_. If her brother’s a certified idiot for going around without a weapon in the night she must have taken after him, especially since she’s not even covering her face with a hood or anything like that. And she’s plenty recognizable – everyone has seen her crying on the day of her father’s funeral on the news, at least.

She clutches at her bag, moving in front of the gate and checking her wristwatch.

Sandor moves closer, still sticking to the wall – good thing the lamplights are mostly broken around here. Well, good thing for him, because she looks completely terrified even if at the same time she still seems determined to do – whatever it is that she’s planning to do here.

She checks her wristwatch again, looks nervously at the way she came from, then checks the watch again, then –

Then she doesn’t notice the three men dressed in black who are coming down from outside the gate – centuries ago it would have been inside the city limits – but Sandor does, and he also notices the nondescript black van parked on the other side of the road.

Sandor throws away his half-smoked cigarette and walks out of the corner he was hiding in – he only saw the men because Sansa Stark is standing under the only functioning streetlamp in the street, which means they can’t probably see him yet.

For a moment he stops, wondering if they’re going to say anything or if they’re professionals. Then he sees one of them taking a piece of cloth out of his coat’s pocket just while she checks her watch again –

They’re professionals.

Good thing he’s one, too.

“Three of you against a _teenager_?” He says, stepping out into the light.

At that, she lets out a small scream – she probably saw his face, ordinary reaction - but then she takes in what he said, and turns her back on him –

“Get her,” one of the men says, and he grabs the girl’s arm.

“Not so fast,” Sandor rasps, and then grabs the guy’s other arm and twists.

The man screams out loud as everyone hears the sound of his arm crunching, and at least the girl is quick on the uptake – she throws herself down on the ground and moves behind Sandor. Good thing that, he doesn’t have to worry about harming her in the meantime, and while the first man is still down clutching at his arm, he kicks one of the others in the leg hard enough to make him topple over his colleague. The third is smarter than the other two – by the time Sandor has dealt with the second guy, he’s run over to the black van and drove away.

Shit. He just hopes the man hasn’t recognized him, though if he has – though luck. They’re probably going to come to him if they’re suicidal enough to try, which means he won’t have to put any effort into tracking them down.

He takes out another cigarette and turns towards the Stark girl – she’s standing behind him, clutching at her bag, pale as a sheet, but she is looking up at him and she’s not averting her eyes after three seconds. Which is more than he can say for a lot of people.

“I guess you didn’t come here thinking _that_ would happen,” he says when she doesn’t speak first.

“I – no, I didn’t – I hadn’t thought –”

“Girl, how about you calm down and tell me what happened. I’m not out for your head. And I know who you are.”

“You – you do?”

“Your face was on every newspaper the day of your father’s funeral. A lot of people know who you are.”

She nods, holding tighter to the bag. Then she sits down on one of the rocks.

“After he died –” she starts, swallowing once. “After he died, it was pretty hard. And – it showed, I think. Not many people talked to me anymore in school, I guess because their parents thought it could be dangerous. Except – Joffrey,” she sighs.

“Joffrey _Baratheon_?” Sandor says, and she flinches at the tone. Well, blame him, he didn’t play bodyguard for that spoiled little brat for years for nothing.

“Him. How do you –”

“Long story. Go on.”

“I – I sort of always had a crush on him, but it never went anywhere. But after my father died he started talking to me.” She sniffs once, twice. “I knew my mom wouldn’t have liked it. Because his mother’s a Lannister. Even if his dad and mine were friends before – before his dad died. So I didn’t tell anyone and – last week he said we should have gone out on a date and he knew a nice place that was open through the night around here. And – well, with what happened to Robb and everything else no one has paid much attention to what I do, and so I thought why not? No one would have noticed. He told me eleven thirty and that he’d bring me back home – he has –”

“A motorcycle,” Sandor finishes for her.

“How do you –”

“I said long story,” Sandor sighs. “And then those guys showed up instead. ‘Course they would.”

“I don’t understand –” She starts, and Sandor figures it’s better to stop being sensitive and make sure she doesn’t get strange ideas about Joffrey fucking Baratheon anymore, patience if she gets her heart broken. Or whatever they call that these days.

“That’s because he doesn’t give a shit about you and considering what just happened to your father and brother I’m sure this wasn’t a coincidence.”

“He – he couldn’t have spent three months being nice to me just so –”

“You don’t know his mother. Or _him_. He could.”

“And _do you_?”

Sandor snorts. “Even too well,” he rasps as he takes another drag.

She doesn’t ask any more and her shoulders shake as she stands back up. “Thank you,” she finally says, looking back up at him. “I mean, I guess I can’t tell anyone that _the shadow of King’s Landing_ made sure I wasn’t kidnapped, can I?”

“Probably it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell your bloody girlfriends,” he agrees. “But you should tell your brother, at least. Considering that he’s sharing your predicament.”

“How do you know?”

“I wouldn’t be half as good as this job if I didn’t know what happens in this city, right? Come on, Flea Bottom is thirty minutes from here. I can walk you to his place. Unless you want to take the bus, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Maybe I should –”

“Maybe it’d be better if you fucking didn’t.”

She doesn’t disagree and she follows him in silence inside the old city – there’s not much movement until they reach Flea Bottom, and at least one part of said old city is still somehow alive even if it’s just thanks to the low rents and high criminality rate. The Red Keep sure as hell is completely abandoned along with the nearby area, and doesn’t it look creepy in the distance. He also would like to know why Robb Stark couldn’t choose an apartment somewhere nicer since he can afford it, but what does Sandor know – maybe he wanted to stay close to his clients, considering that most kids passing through juvy live here.

He stops under Stark’s door – Sansa looks fairly tired, but she hadn’t complained once during their trek.

“Really,” Sandor tells her, “that kid is bad news. Do yourself a favor and steer clear.”

“I will,” she says. “It’s just – between everything and my best friend being off in Essos I just –”

“I get it,” he cuts her short. He’s not going to tell her some sob story about all the reasons why he gets it – after all, it’s not like anyone wanted to hang out with him way back in the day, not before his brother ruined his face and not after. Especially on account of who was his fucking brother. “It’s not a crime. But pay attention from now on, and for the love of everything don’t trust anyone related to a Lannister.”

She nods, and he turns his back on her, figuring he’ll let her get in -

“Wait,” she tells him, and he turns back to her.

“Yes?”

“I just – I don’t know if you were there on purpose or not, but – thank you,” she says, and then –

She moves forward, kisses his cheek very quickly - the _burned_ side – and then she runs inside the building, through the yard and towards the door leading to her brother’s apartment.

For a moment, he can’t move – he can’t remember the last time someone willingly came close to him or that part of him at least, not that many people go out of their way to thank him in the first place. He thinks about what would have happened to that poor girl if he hadn’t been around by chance, and –

He’s not going to think about this any further lest he really ends up spending the rest of the night with some choice alcohol and tomorrow morning nursing an hangover, and starts walking back towards the gate. The guys were fairly out for the count, and if he’s quick there’s a chance they might still be there.

He’s there some twenty minutes later and guess what, they are still there. And they’re both still passed out, which means that they haven’t been able to call anyone. Good. 

He throws a rock against the streetlamp – patience if the mayor will have to spend some money to replace it, it’s not as if streetlamps work in this stinking hole of a city anyway – and waits for them to wake up.

When the first - the one with the broken arm - does, Sandor is ready for it.

“Fellas,” he rasps, putting a hand on the man’s mouth, just to make sure he doesn’t get wrong ideas about making some noise, “we need to talk. Right now.”


	6. Brienne

The roof of the long abandoned Great Sept of Baelor is empty when Brienne gets there (as empty as the Sept itself: no one has stepped foot into it it since the Faith of the Seven died out centuries ago and no one ever thought to make a museum out of it, so it’s a good location for this kind of meet-ups), but she knows it won’t be for long. She _knows_ Clegane is the so-called Shadow of King’s Landing, even if he doesn’t like to acknowledge it when she makes him understand that she wants a meeting, so she knows he’ll be here soon. And about the other kid with the dark costume similar to that other vigilante’s from twenty years ago – well, he crashed their meeting last month and he did tell them how to contact him if there was the need. She left the message in the ads section of the _Daily King’s Landing_ , as he said, so he should be here.

Now, the only doubt is whether their old friend _Reek_ might have caught the bait – she left an ad in that same newspaper which only he could have understood. She hopes he did, if only because considering what happened with Sansa Stark a few days ago and with the fact that he’s apparently saved her brother’s hide twice yet, if they have to work on this damned case together then he might as well join in. If she ends up shedding some light of that old investigation in the meantime –

She shakes her head – she quit not long after also because she kept on thinking about that room and how Jeyne had told her _the guard said I should stop crying because sure as hell no one in the force would ever look for her_ , and that wasn’t what she had signed up for back in the day.

She sits down on the edge of the roof when she sees Clegane climbing out of the other side, old faded trench and all. He isn’t even bothering to hide the burned side of his face – he won’t, until she’s the only one here.

“The first as usual, huh,” he mutters, keeping his distance.

“I like to be on top of things,” Brienne replies.

“Well, you sure as hell are. Now, if only all this party could get started the fuck already –”

“Then put a real meeting time on your ads, not _around two in the morning_ ,” the kid in the black costume says, climbing over the other side of the railing and landing on his own feet – he stays in the third corner of the roof as usual. And keeps his distance. Brienne would like to at least call him some kind of name, but he hasn’t even given them one and the newspapers still haven’t found him a moniker.

Good thing that – Brienne hates hers.

Clegane moves up the lapels of his coat – you can’t even see his eyes in between that and the hat he lowered down in front of his eyes.

“Are we waiting for someone?” The kid asks when no one gets the conversation started.

“Maybe,” she says, “but at this point we might as well bring up the reason why we’re here.”

“Ned Stark,” Clegane rasps. “Or better, whatever the hell he left behind that is making _people_ want his family dead.”

The kid doesn’t say anything for a moment and Brienne thinks that he might have been taken by surprise, but then –

“I was thinking of looking into it, too,” he finally says. “But I figured that on my own I might not have accomplished much.”

“Well, that’s why your friendly neighborhood watchmen brigade holds fucking meetings on rooftops at two in the morning,” Clegane goes on.

“Why, would you want to do it at two in the afternoon?” Brienne quips.

“Right, right, fine. Guess we all are more or less involved by now. I mean, good thing Sansa Stark was in my area two days ago.”

Brienne is sure that the kid shudders a moment at the mention of the name.

“And we all know that Robb Stark was targeted – I mean, he’s only around –”

“Thanks to me?”

The first thing Brienne feels after she hears that line is a revolting stench of trash coming from the only free corner of the rooftop.

But –

Yeah, there he is. Just as Jaime said – wearing an old, dirty trench coat, smelling of trash, with a hat covering his head and a weird black and white mask.

“Nice to see you got the message,” Brienne says when neither Clegane nor the kid answer that – it’s true, after all.

The guy shrugs, not moving forward.

“Say,” Clegane starts, “don’t you have a better name than –”

“It’s Reek,” the guy cuts him.

“Whatever suits you,” Clegane shrugs. “So, here we are, the merry saviors of this bloody city. Are we going to share and sing Kumbaya now or what?”

Brienne rolls her eyes under the mask and figures that if no one wants to take charge here she will have to.

“I’d rather _not_ sing anything with you, but sure, let’s share. I know who is one person behind this story, at least, but I can’t prove it.”

“And who’s that?” The kid asks.

“Tywin Lannister,” Brienne sighs. “One of the thugs our friend _Reek_ here sent to an hospital pretty much confirmed that to me the moment I asked him a few questions, but I couldn’t press further.”

“Even if you didn’t, I’m pretty sure the guys who were about to grab the man’s daughter yesterday before I dropped by work for him. Very peripherally,” Clegane adds. Brienne doesn’t even ask him how he knows – he would.

“I don’t think Stark was trying to nail _him_ , though,” the kid says.

“Roose Bolton,” Reek rasps. The voice is obviously being faked, Brienne can hear that it’s not his real pitch, but she doesn’t point that out.

“What?” Clegane asks.

“ _That_ was who Stark was trying to nail,” Reek keeps on.

“And how do you know that?” The kid asks, skeptical.

“Because all the people who’ve been after Robb Stark until now work for _him_ ,” he replies, and he sounds so sure of that –

Of course he does, Brienne thinks, trying to fight the urge to throw up inside her mask.

“I could ask the same question,” the kid presses, and she steps in between.

“No,” she says, “I’m – I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Thanks for the trust,” Reek says without sounding thankful at all.

“Never mind that. So, Lannister and Bolton wanted Ned Stark dead. And now they want his son dead, too, at least,” Brienne keeps on. “Something tells me it’s not just because Robb Stark is more or less maybe following in his father’s footsteps – sending kids to community service is hardly the same thing. And the guy I questioned, he said they were supposed to search out his house.”

“Hm. Since I guess Stark’s paperwork is nowhere to be found…” Clegane says.

“It disappeared. Both the investigation’s, and his own. The day after he died, or so my contact in the police tells me. Which is why I was thinking –”

“That they think R – Stark has it?”

Was the kid about to say _Robb_ without the surname?

“Could be,” Clegane agrees. “I imagine he doesn’t. Or at least, if he does, he wouldn’t know, or he’d have told.”

“Do you imagine _Ned Stark_ giving him that knowing that it could put him in danger?” Brienne asks.

“So we should find the paperwork,” Reek cuts in. “Or at least, some of us. Four of us looking for paperwork means that if they try to nail the rest of the family again no one is going to give a fuck.”

Brienne needs to talk to Jaime about this as soon as possible – they had always assumed that the guy had to be somewhat deranged and that not getting help couldn’t have made it any better. Instead… it looks like even if he might be somewhat deranged, he still can do his job pretty damn well considering that he’s only said fairly reasonable things until now.

“Good point. I imagine two of us can keep an eye on the family and the other two can put cues together. If everyone agrees. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can all go back to our business as usual.”

“Fine by me,” Clegane agrees at once. “And I vote that you and the new guy here look for clues while me and him go on babysitting duties,” he says, nodding towards Reek. “I mean, _I_ take general babysitting duties and _he_ stays on Robb Stark’s. Sounds like he’s got that covered to me,” he snorts.

“Fine by me,” Reek cuts him off, not sounding particularly amused. “And if that was all as far as I was concerned, I have a busy night. If you need me to come here again, leave the same ad.”

When he doesn’t receive an answer, he – just jumps off the roof into the fire escape and walks down into the road, disappearing a minute later. Brienne can still smell the stench.

“Well, that guy’s definitely weird as fuck, but I guess we could do worse. Right. So I’m on watching the other Starks duty. _Amazing_. Guess I’ll follow him – I have my rounds to do.”

At least he doesn’t just throw himself down onto the ledge – he starts climbing down a lot more carefully.

Brienne doesn’t pay him further attention –she’ll see him again soon, she figures – and instead, she stares at the kid, clad in black and looking back up at her.

“Very well,” she tells him, “how do you want to do this?”

“I imagine someone should check Lannister’s offices. Or the company’s database.”

“You imagine well.”

“I – I don’t work alone. I think I have a couple friends who could hack into it. I imagine you’d need more street experience to deal with Roose Bolton’s people.”

“That’s because you would need that. Fine. I’ll look into Bolton, you look into Lannister, we’ll see each other four days from now always here. If you need to contact me first, leave me an ad and I’ll do the same.”

“Good. Then – good luck.”

“Same to you,” she tells him, and then he starts running and takes a leap, landing on the roof of the next building over.

Brienne stays there for a while, pondering about how to approach this mess and trying to forget how bad Reek smelled – good thinking on his part to leave before she could ask him questions, not that he’d know who she is or why she knows who _he_ is, more or less. 

But first thing, she will have to coerce some of her old contacts to share some information about how she might find an excuse to maybe take a trip to the Dreadfort a couple days from now, and she should probably inform Jaime of this little meeting – hopefully he might have found out some more since they last saw each other.

If for a moment she misses the times when she wasn’t doing this on her own, no one has to know.


	7. Robb

He had almost forgotten about the suits, in between almost being killed twice and that Reek vigilante showing up both times – the second he didn’t even stop for a moment when Robb tried to thank him –, but two days after he was supposed to go get them, he remembers.

Mostly, he does because it’s the day before the hearing and his mother reminded him, and that’s how he drives to Baelish’s hoping that he won’t have to deal with the owner.

Clearly, no such luck – Theon is there, but Baelish is there, too, and he insists on trying the suits to make sure it’s a _perfect fit_. Robb hates trying clothes on, but one should do for all of them and he picks the blue suit on purpose – Theon, who hasn’t done or said anything until now except bringing in the clothes, just smiles a tiny bit while Baelish looks livid. Robb puts it on and when he comes out of the fitting room and looks at himself he has to admit it – it’s a perfect fit, indeed.

“Well,” he says, “I definitely spent my money well,” he says, making Baelish gloat. Whatever. He was looking at Theon in the mirror, and Theon was looking back, so he knows that the person who was meant to receive it received the compliment.

“You’re welcome to come back for whatever you need,” Baelish says with fake amiability as he puts the suits in a bag. “Maybe you’d like help to put them in the car?”

“I’m fine, I can –” Robb starts.

“Nonsense. I’m sure Theon can help out, right?” Baelish keeps on, and then dumps the bag on Theon before he can say yes or no.

Robb just leads the way out – if anything he’ll be able to do something that he had been thinking of without Baelish getting crass.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I could have brought them myself.”

“It’s fine,” Theon replies, not looking at him as he puts the bag in the back of Robb’s car, “I work out.”

Which Robb can see – he has some really nice arms, now that he glances at them. Last time, Theon had a long sleeved shirt – now he has a short-sleeved one and they do stand out.

“Hey,” Robb says, “I imagine that you worked overtime to get four of them done in barely two weeks.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind –”

Robb just hands him over a check he had already written, knowing it would have been the case. “Yes, but as I said, I worked a lot of cases like yours and I think you deserve a bonus. Considering that they really did fit well.”

Theon looks down at it and then shakes his head, trying to hand it back. “I can’t. It’s too much, if he finds out –”

“And who says I’ll tell him?” Robb says, his tone getting slightly lower. “Really. I can afford it. And you can buy yourself a night on the town or something like that.”

Theon smirks at that, shaking his head. “It’s not really my style these days, but – thank you. Guess I can pay some rent in advance.”

“Right. I have to go now, but I guess I might see you soon if I need some more fitted shirts.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Theon replies, sounding kind of surprised that Robb said that, his cheeks going slightly red, and then he turns back on his heels and heads straight for the shop.

Robb doesn’t really need more fitted shirts, but he thinks he might want to come back, even if it’s not a smart idea right now to get involved with anyone. Still, in between two attempts on his life, Jon being always somehow out of the house lately and only available if you call him, Sansa being heartbroken over some jerk at school and his father not being there, he could do with a damned night on the town himself.

Well, not today, he guesses. He checks the trunk of the car, and then his cellphone rings – it’s Dacey, from the courthouse.

“Hey,” he answers as he opens the door.

“I have bad news,” she tells him. “The defense lawyer for your hearing tomorrow has sent in even more paperwork. Now.”

“Shit,” he sighs, “guess I’m going to have to pull a late night again.”

“Sorry about that.” She sounds fairly apologetic, at least.

“Well, you can’t have everything from life, I guess. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He drives to the courthouse, and goes over the new paperwork all over again, and when he’s done he sees it’s ten in the evening, again. He should just sleep here at this point, he thinks, and then heads down for the parking lot, clutching his pepper spray in the pocket of his coat - he still can’t shoot, but he’s not going to be an idiot about this.

Pity that the moment he takes out his key to open the car something that feels like a pocketknife suddenly touches his back.

Shit. He doubts that whoever it is will give enough of a villain speech to let him take out the pepper spray before pushing in, but it lasts five seconds and then it’s _gone_ and he hears a scream –

And he smells trash. Again.

He turns at once and sees the thug lying on the ground with both arms broken, moaning out loud. Because _Reek_ is keeping them locked in a hold.

“Don’t bother calling the police,” Reek rasps, and knocks the guy out with a punch to the side of the head. “I’ll take care of this one.”

Then he puts the guy over his shoulder without even staggering some, turning his back on Robb –

“Hey, wait a moment,” Robb calls into the night, but the other man is gone already.

Shit, Robb thinks again, and gets back inside the car – it’s better if he gets the hell out of here right now, and patience if he can’t get the man to talk for more than ten seconds. He has a suspicion that there will be a next time, and next time he will try again if only to – to try and see if he can repay the man somehow. Considering that this is the third time he saves Robb’s hide.

He also should probably call Jaime Lannister to tell him this happened and to ask if he’s made some progress – he’ll do that when he gets home.

And conveniently, his phone rings.

“Stark?”

Well, speak of the devil.

“Lannister,” he says. “I was about to call you.”

“Well, I might have news, but I’m not sharing them on the phone. Can you drop by my office tomorrow after your hearing?”

“Sure. By the way, uh, I might have just survived an ambush in the courtyard’s parking lot.”

“What? Don’t tell me that –”

“Yes, _he_ showed up again. Smelling like trash and all. And he might have dragged out the guy who jumped me - he said the police was unreliable or something and that he was going to _take care of it_. I’m not sure I want to know what he meant.”

“Probably just beating him to a pulp, from what I hear,” Lannister sighs. “Well, I can’t say any more for now. Come tomorrow at my office. I’ll be here all afternoon, anyway. And be fucking careful, being paid by your mother after you die wouldn’t be how I want this case to end.”

Then he closes the phone in Robb’s face - obviously he’s surrounded by people who don’t bother with niceties, is he.

Robb sighs and goes straight to bed – no point in going to work sleep-deprived tomorrow.

\--

The next day, he wears the blue suit. He hadn’t noticed when trying it on for a few minutes, but it’s actually comfortable, and doesn’t make him feel like a mannequin like it happened with the one he had to wear at his father’s funeral. By the time he’s spent the morning trying to stop the attorneys from killing each other and lunch time has come, he doesn’t feel like he wants to rip his clothes off, which is a fairly good thing if you ask him, and by the time he’s done with everything and has told everyone they’ll adjourn the court tomorrow by mid-afternoon, he still doesn’t want to go straight home and put on something more comfortable already.

He doesn’t want to think that some extra work had gone into those suits, even if it looks like it, and instead he drives to Lannister’s cramped office – when he walks in, it’s not tidier than the it was the last time he came in. Lannister also looks suitably sleep deprived, and his ashtray looks suitably empty - maybe it’s just that he’s obviously trying to quit smoking, but Robb can’t help feeling a pang of sympathy regardless. He knows how that feels.

“I see you survived the first hearing,” Lannister tells him as he walks in.

“I survived three killing attempts, what’s a court hearing?”

“Good thing you can still joke about that. Anyway, there are news. Most of which aren’t good.”

“Amazing.” Robb drops down in the armchair Lannister keeps in front of the desk. He thinks he needs a drink.

“So, let’s say I know someone who knows one of those masks.”

“… All right.”

“Let’s say that it seems like they might all be looking into your plight, too, if anything because it looks like since your father died the crime rate went off the roof. More than usual.”

“That’s… comforting?” Robb doesn’t know how to feel at that, but it can’t be bad, can it?

“If you think so. Anyway, in between what they found out and what I found out digging out all the dead ends in existence, it’s because of something your father was dealing with. And I think these people trying to kill you are convinced that you have his paperwork.”

“Wait, what?”

“The investigation on your father’s death was dealt with in three days, but one of my former superiors tells me that the folder with the case he was investigating has disappeared into thin air. And your smelly guardian angel seems dead convinced that your father was about to nail Roose Bolton and that the guys sent after you all somehow work for him. Point is, he’s deranged but I’m sure he’s not making it up. I mean, if he’s the guy who also saved Jeyne Poole stands to reason he’d recognize people working for Bolton, if they were doing the same five years ago.”

“Fine. And?”

“There’s the part where your sister was about to get herself kidnapped at the Lion’s Gate. Because _Joffrey Baratheon_ told her they’d go on a date. And all the nine guys who jumped on you the first time ended up in a private clinic owned by Lannister Inc., not that all of this isn’t circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t prove a thing.”

“Wait – wait a moment, you’re telling me that my father was killed because he found something to nail Bolton when he had been trying without success for some ten years and that _your_ father is somehow involved in this?”

“Hey, as far as he’s concerned he’s not my father, and yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Now, your line of work is completely harmless as far as they’re concerned – the most you can do is send some of their youngest recruits to community service, what a big deal –, so the fact that they really want you dead means that they think you’re dangerous. Now, I worked with your father for a few years – he might have had his moments when I thought he was too strict with the rules, considering KLPD works, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. If he had proof against a guy who has managed to go on being a criminal for thirty years without leaving a single piece of evidence and if it implied my father – which, knowing him, is entirely possible – he wouldn’t have kept just one copy of it. I guess they decided that since you’re in the same line of work, more or less, or maybe because you were his oldest son and he’d trust you with it… well, you might have it or you know something about its whereabouts.”

“But I don’t!” Robb can’t believe this. “He never even told us anything about his work for that exact reason!”

“Well, you don’t have to convince me of that, but if you come up with any idea of where your father might have put that paperwork you’re welcome to share with the class. Anyway, back to your own personal shadow – as it sounds reasonable that if Bolton men were going after you he’d know, I think we can be positive that he’s the same guy from the warehouse five years ago. And he might have a beef with Bolton for that specific matter.”

“So – it’s him? For sure?”

“Unless Jeyne comes back from Volantis or wherever she ended up, sees him in the flesh and confirms that he’s not, let’s be real, do you think two people would use that alias?”

Robb has nothing to object to that - it’s weird enough that one person would go as _Reek_ out of every moniker. It has to be the same one.

“What,” Lannister says after a long moment of silence, “are you pondering what it implies that the guy who’s somehow decided to save your hide also killed someone else?”

“Considering what I know about Ramsay Snow that’s the least of my issues. I’m pondering how to convince him to at least tell me why he’s doing it.”

“Good luck with that, seems like saying he’s elusive is the understatement of the century.” Lannister stands up, opens the window and takes a cigarette out of a half-empty packet. “Ah, shit, I might as well go for it. This is my last packet, I should savor it.”

“Good luck with _that_ , too.”

“Thanks. Anyway, you have a seasoned mobster and the most corrupt businessman and politician in Westeros trying to off you. If I were you, I’d spend my next six months on a cruise to the Summer Islands.”

“Right, just after I start working for real?”

“Is the lack of self-preservation a family trait? Anyway, go home, bolt your door, buy something better than pepper spray and for the love of everything, _think_ about where your father might have put that paperwork.”

“I’ll try,” Robb agrees, and when Lannister refuses a check for the days he has already worked, Robb figures they’re done and leaves the building. Well, amazing, now not only he has to fear for his life, he has to do it knowing there are Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton out of everyone behind it. And for what – he has no idea of where his father might have hidden dangerous paperwork or data or whatever. Surely not at home. And he sure as hell didn’t give it to Robb himself – now if only he could telegraph that to anyone who might want to know.

He loosens up his tie, figuring that he’ll get into the car and drive straight back home when –

He turns his head, looks at the coffee shop in front of Lannister’s office and sees Theon outside it, looking at the empty tables in the shop but not getting in.

For a moment Robb considers ignoring him – now that he knows he’s a target, he’s potentially putting people in danger by interacting with them – but he’s also tired, sleep deprived and he hasn’t had many friends since Jeyne was abducted and suddenly every single friend of his, Sansa and Arya’s disappeared into thin air.

Maybe he just wants a normal conversation, damn it.

He doesn’t open the car and crosses the road.

“Hey,” he says when he comes next to Theon, and the guy goes tense for a moment before turning on his side and relaxing ever so slightly when he sees who is it. “I’m sorry, I was walking by and I saw you standing there and – if you’re waiting for someone –” Robb starts, and Theon shakes his head.

“No, I wasn’t. You just caught me by surprise, is all. I see you’re enjoying your new clothes?” He looks kind of proud at that and Robb doesn’t try to deny it.

“I hate suits usually, but these are actually comfortable. Why are you still working for that creep instead of putting on your own business?”

Theon snorts and shakes his head again. “I wish I had the money. But it’s a living. Really, I don’t even care at this point. As long as the customer is satisfied.”

“I guess. Listen, I was wondering, I’ve had a long day and I could do with a drink – can I get you a coffee or something since you seemed like you were about to get one? If I was wrong –”

“No, uh, you weren’t, but let’s say that the coffee they have here is too overpriced for my budget. I mean, I have rent to cover. So I never really get it, but don’t feel –”

“I asked first, didn’t I?”

Theon stares at him for a moment as if he can’t conceive that Robb just proposed that, but then he cracks a small grin and says that if he really wants to waste that much money Theon won’t be the one to stop him, and –

Shit, he really does have a lovely smile, Robb thinks as they walk inside the shop. He gets a regular espresso, Theon gets some ridiculous strawberry-flavored sweet caffeinated drink that makes Robb’s head spin at the ideas of how much sugar it has to contain and they sit at a table far from the window.

“Now I feel bad that you spent three times the money on my drink,” Theon says as they get comfortable.

“Don’t even go there. I offered, didn’t I? That said, this your day off?”

“Yeah. I get half a day a week at least, even if I don’t always take it. Still, considering that last week I also worked overtime, I figured he could deal with the store for half a day on his own.”

“He’s terrible,” Robb says without too many ceremonies.

“I know,” Theon sighs, “and any union representative would hate his guts, but he still took me in when I had zero references, so what can I do. The moment I have enough money to stop scraping by when it comes to the rent I’ll see if I have other options. For now – as I said, it’s a living.”

“So – so you’re on your own? I’m sorry, that wasn’t appropriate –”

“No, it’s fine. Yes, I mean, let’s say I haven’t seen my family in years and tracking down what’s left of it, if there’s any, would be a terrible idea in the first place. But I’ve been in worse places than I am right now.”

Robb thinks of those two missing fingers currently hidden by a glove and thinks, _I can believe that_.

“Well, if you ever want to sue your employer you know where to find me,” he says, finishing his coffee. Theon snorts all over again and Robb doesn’t wipe away the coffee foam on his lower lip just out of self-control.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He goes back to his coffee and damn, Robb is this tempted to just blurt it out – _hey, I’ve liked you since we first saw each other, do you think we could go out one of these nights_ would have sounded perfect six months ago, but he can’t now, can he.

“Hey, is there something wrong?” Theon asks a moment later. Damn. It must have showed.

“Uh, nothing. It’s just – I don’t know if you know, but this last month hasn’t been that great and I just realized that if someone is following me they might have seen you, and –”

“I read something about it,” Theon cuts him. “And don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” He says that in such a serious tone Robb can’t help but believe him, and somehow it sounds familiar but he doesn’t know why, and then he decides he’s overthinking it.

“Well then,” he says, “I guess I should go, it’s been a long day, but – thanks for the company. And – I really might need those shirts one of these days.”

“I have your measures,” Theon replies quietly, and – _is he flirting back_?

He looks a bit surprised at how smoothly that ran off his tongue, now that Robb notices it. Maybe he doesn’t do it often – pity, because he should, if you ask him.

“Great,” Robb says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound too chocked, and heads out of the coffee shop, wondering, _what the hell am I doing_.

\--

He goes back to Baelish’s for the shirts three days later, he doesn’t find the guts to ask for Theon’s number and after he comes back from an afternoon of fire on the job he walks back inside his building just after sunset, and someone who had obviously been hiding in between the main door and the mailboxes takes his neck in a choke hold.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, _is it ever going to end_?

“I have a question,” the man says, “and you’re going to answer it or I cut your throat. Got it?”

Robb nods once, for what he can move his head.

“Where are they?”

“What do you mean?” Robb manages to ask back when he’s left a bit of leeway to speak.

“Don’t play dumb. Your father’s files.”

Well, damn it, Lannister and whichever mask he’s in contact with had theorized right, didn’t they.

“I swear, I don’t know, he never told me!”

“Yeah, tough luck, try that –” The man starts, and then Robb’s throat is free, someone is wrenching the man off him and he hears a fairly sickening thud just as soon as he turns on his back and sees _Reek_ throwing the guy against a wall without too much care for injuries.

“I’ll deal with him,” _Reek_ says a moment later, not even looking his way – not that Robb could see behind that mask, anyway – and he goes for the henchman, and -

“Wait a moment!” Robb doesn’t know what possesses him to move forward and put a hand on the guy’s shoulder – he freezes and turns towards him at once, the black blots moving closer to his cheeks.

Oh.

That thing reacts to heat indeed, doesn’t it.

“What,” _Reek_ answers, sounding like he wouldn't be above punching him in the face for having touched without permission.

“I – I know. I mean. My father had some files in the house from a while ago. I read them. There were – some notes about Jeyne’s kidnapping and – I know it was you.”

The man just moves way from Robb’s hold, shaking his hand off and grabbing the unconscious henchman instead. “So what?” He says. “What does it change?”

“I – nothing. That’s exactly what it changes.”

For a moment, Robb’s sure that the other man is looking straight at him through the mask.

And then –

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. And be careful,” he croaks, and then he’s ran away with the thug thrown over his shoulder.

Robb looks at the dirt covering his palm – it looks like he has just grabbed something out of the trash – and then he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

He walks back upstairs and resolves to try and figure something out about that paperwork, because until someone figures out where did his father hide it he won’t have peace, his entire family won’t either and he won’t ever get to the bottom of this damned business.

Never mind that if he ever does it would mean that being around him wouldn't be dangerous anymore, and then he really might find the guts to ask Theon out for real, but this is not the time.


	8. Jon

“We should do _what_?” Sam asks as Jon takes off the costume for the night – he had waited until the last possible moment to ask him, but patrolling the Lion Gate like a hawk has given zero results, and he’s nowhere near good enough an hacker for what he has in mind. And considering that Robb ended up almost getting himself killed again, he can’t postpone it anymore.

“Hack into the Lannister Inc. database,” Jon repeats. “Shit, this costume will kill me from the heat one of these days.”

“Yeah, Gilly can worry about that later, did you just say _hack into the Lannister Inc. database_?”

“I think he’s been clear enough,” Pyp sighs as he stands up from the sofa where he was perched with his laptop – the fact that these days his friends are pretty much colonizing the former Tower of the Hand (Jon did look up the place’s name after deciding he was donning the damned costume after all) should probably scare the shit out of him, especially if anyone finds them out, but they managed up until this point and they said it’s more convenient than paying rent for that crappy apartment. “And I guess it’s not _un_ doable.”

“Not undoable.” Sam doesn’t sound at all convinced.

“Well, if we’re careful.” Pyp shrugs. “Hey, Jon, the Daily King’s Landing just ran an article on _the dark devil of Blackwater_ disrupting five robberies in two hours, how does it feel to be famous and hated by Sam’s father?”

“I’d be glad if they stop trying to find me a bloody name if you ask me. Also, Sam’s father has hated me for years without the need for a costume. And it only feels painful – good thing it’s kevlar or I’d have three broken ribs.”

“Sit down, I’ll bring some ice,” Gilly says as she stands up and moves to the floor below – in which they had found a fully furnished apartment, along with a kitchen, everything functional. Which is why everyone but him and Sam have pretty much moved here – then again, why not. At least it’s being useful for something.

Jon does, taking his shirt off and taking some relish in not having anything pressing over his bruises.

“Anyway,” Ygritte says looking up from her own laptop, “it might be easier than we all think. In theory.”

“What?”

“This place here, I don’t know what the hell did your f- sorry, Rheagar Targaryen do back in the day, but other than having the self-sufficing electricity – well, there’s a phone line. Obviously. I tried calling from it more than once and I never managed to crack down the number.”

Considering that Ygritte learned how to find out how to crack unknown callers from cellphones when she was eleven, if Jon remembers right –

“So I assume that trying to hack using this particular phone line would make us untraceable. Or at least, long enough to get what you need. If you know what you need.”

“Proof that he’s involved with Roose Bolton in something, at least. If there’s anything regarding my father even better, but the first would be enough. Oh, thank you,” he mutters as Gilly hands him a few ice packs.

“No problem. So, is it doable?”

“I think it is. Sure, there’s the part where I should get past the firewall,” Ygritte says under her breath. “Which I certainly can’t do from here. I mean, I could do it from any computer inside that network. Except that we aren’t inside it.”

“Gods, I don’t even know why I’m helping you with this, it’s _insane_ , but do you mean that any computer connected to that network would be fine if you could access it?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Ygritte says. “But I should use _this_ connection. Not theirs, or they’d find me out in five minutes.”

“How about someone breaks into the offices, turns on any of those computers and gets rid of the firewall long enough for you to hack into that specific one?”

“Grenn, that’s _good thinking_ ,” Pyp says, standing up and clapping him on the shoulders. “You can go in tomorrow, I can check for you if at the main office building here –”

“Pyp, slow down. I mean, I’m _half-assing_ this. Punching and kicking criminals is one thing, jumping off roofs is another and believe me it’s damned hard, but I’m not good at _breaking and entering_. I’d probably just fall down the damned window or make someone notice me.”

“You are fairly shit at it,” Ygritte agrees, “but not everyone on your team.”

“My what?”

“Come on, don’t you meet with the other masks every two weeks or so? I’d like to remind you that the _Blue Beauty_ or however the hell they call her, she is quite good at breaking and entering.”

Right, Jon figures, she does have a reputation for it.

“Fine. Anyone with a laptop, can you put the ad in the paper?”

“Done and done,” Ygritte says. “I’ll have instructions for you before tomorrow night. Get ready for some fun.”

“As if. This is not fun at all, and if you all don’t mind I’m going to drive home before someone realizes I’m gone half of the nights in a week,” he huffs.

“Wait, I’m coming with you,” Sam says. “It can’t hurt to actually sleep some at home and make sure my dad doesn’t get too suspicious. Guys, I’ll be back in the late afternoon – don’t destroy the batcave.”

“As there’s a chance in the seven hells that we’d go house hunting all over again,” Pyp says, waving at them, while Ygritte starts typing something with an air to her that’s entirely too determined, if you ask Jon. It’s mildly scary, for that matter.

“Come on,” Jon says, “I’ll give you a ride. Shit, everything hurts. Five gangs in a night was too much.”

“Which is why you should stick to this business twice each week at most, not four,” Sam sighs as they walk down the stairs.

“Yeah, in that area? It would be pretty much the same as nothing. And - I mean, the guy who smells like a dumpster is fairly upsetting to be around, but he’s out and about in Flea Bottom five days out of every week at least, and without taking a break. I don’t know how the hell he does that,” Jon admits. “On top of making sure my brother doesn’t end up dead. I guess I should be more thankful.”

“How is that going, by the way?”

“The last guy did ask for the files directly. They really think Robb has them, damn it.”

“I imagine that they won’t believe him if he says he doesn’t.”

“No. And I know for sure they’re not home – I checked everywhere and I might have asked Cat not so subtly if she hadn’t noticed my father hiding something around, but no luck there. And the idiot is still going to work – the only good thing is that I haven’t seen anyone looking fishy around the house lately.”

“Why, there was someone before?”

Jon gets inside the car and starts driving the moment Sam is settled.

“A few guys. But that other mask – the shadow, the one who manages to never show his face even if he doesn’t have a mask – he’s been walking around the area. And they know he was the one saving my sister. I think he just scared everyone away, never mind that if they wanted to kidnap her it was to blackmail Robb, so they probably don’t think it’s worth it and they’re targeting him instead.”

“Shit, what a mess,” Sam says while Jon speeds up – it’s four in the morning and he’d really like to get home and crash until ten. Good thing that when he said that he’d have liked to take a sabbatical from university Cat didn’t object for a moment – he let her believe it was because in between his father’s death and finding out who his parents technically were he might have needed a break from it. Yeah, as if. He feels guilty about that, but maybe in one year he’ll figure out what he wants to do with his life and with the fucking costume.

“Indeed,” Jon agrees, and they drive in silence until Sam’s building.

“Just be careful tomorrow,” Sam tells him before getting out of the car.

Good advice. He hopes he’ll manage to take it.

\--

At eleven in the evening he’s there, perched on the roof, and _she_ ’s there as well – good thing she read the message.

“I imagine you have news,” she tells him from behind the mask. He nods, feeling very small at once – to her full height, she has at least twenty centimeters on him.

“I have a friend who can hack into the Lannister Inc. database,” he says. “But it requires turning on a computer from inside their offices. Case is, breaking and entering isn’t my field of expertise, but it’s yours, isn’t it?”

“It can be, if needed. So, do you need me to come with you and make sure that no one notices you when you actually get inside the building?”

“I guess that having back-up wouldn’t hurt, either, but yes, that’s what I need.”

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Then –

“Fine. I imagine you want to go to the tower, right?”

Lannister Tower. Just outside the old walls, towering over the entire city – the Red Keep looks small in comparison – and a complete punch in the eye, and in which you could find plenty of people working desk jobs. “Well, I need a computer connected to their main server. Unless the it’s in _Lannisport_ -”

“No. Lannisport is just where Tywin Lannister lives, not where he owns offices. All right, let’s go.”

And damn it, he thinks as he follows her, he really has a lot of practice left in this line of work, if he ever decides to pursue it for good. It’s not that he falls behind, but she’s a lot more at ease with this whole jumping over roofs and generally, well, not using the ground to walk business, even if she’s bigger and taller. He does get why they called her _blue beauty_ though – she’s really graceful in spite of her size, how wouldn’t anyone think that while watching her move?

When they finally reach the top of the building next to the tower, she assesses the situation. Their building has maybe five floors – the tower has three hundred. And they’re plenty far – they can’t jump.

“Any employee desk position would suffice, wouldn’t it?” She asks him after a good minute of observing.

“Uh - yes. I don’t need to get to the top.”

“All right. Well, let’s do this again.”

“What – _again_?”

“I had to do it once – a few years ago. But it’s not the problem right now. They do have a few night watchmen, but no one ever checks the fire escape. Climb down and then try to get there without making yourself seen – with that costume being so dark it shouldn’t be a problem. Then wait on the tenth floor.”

“… All right. But -”

“But nothing. Come on, let’s do this.”

And then she starts climbing down the building as if it’s as easy as walking.

Damn, he has a lot to learn. He follows her more slowly, goes up ten floors on the fire escape making sure that no one is paying attention, good thing it’s a week night and no one is around the area at this time, and then she climbs up next to him a moment later, grabs some kind of passe-partout from her pocket and – she puts the key in and opens the window.

“Come on, get in. I’ve had this since the last time I had to break inside here, don’t look so surprised,” she says as the window opens and she lets herself in. Jon hoists himself over the windowsill and follows her into a huge room full of cubicles. The walls are all red. For a moment he feels completely overwhelmed - how anxiety inducing must it feel to work here is something he’s not sure he ever wants to experience.

“Right, wait a moment –” He turns on his comm, hoping that it works this far – they found a lot of comms in the tower, but this is the first time he uses it. “Uh, I’m in.”

“Good,” Ygritte tells him – there’s some static, but he can understand her. “Can you hear me?”

“More or less.”

“Better than nothing. Turn on the first computer you see and when you’re done put the pen drive I gave you inside.”

“Right. And then?”

“That’s all you have to do, I know you couldn’t shut down a firewall if I explained you step by step.”

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” he hisses as he does what she said. The computer turns on at once and he pushes in the pen drive.

“Are you sure they won’t find us?” 

“No,” the other woman says, “this floor is for really low-level employees. The cameras aren’t in this specific corner. That’s why I picked it. Wait, what is that doing?”

“I have no clue,” Jon says as he looks at the list of numbers and letters appearing on the screen. “My friend is doing it from – our other location. Hey, is it working?”

“It’s working fine, shut up. So, let’s see what I can find.” He can hear her tapping and he stops looking at the screen – the sequence of windows shutting down and opening this quickly is giving him a headache.

“I think I have something,” Ygritte says some five minutes later, “but I’m just copying the files, I’ll tell you later after I’m out.”

“Yeah, good idea. How long still?”

“A bit, at least. I’m also getting the accounting file – who knows if there’s anything interesting. I can have Sam read that later.”

“You can do that while I come back to base. Okay, just tell me when – hey, what was that?”

It was a moment, but Jon is sure he saw a list of names that might have reminded him of something.

“Be a bit more specific?”

“A file that I saw for a second just now. It was a list of names.”

“A list of names, huh? I’ll look for it while you get the hell out of Dodge. Give me another two minutes and I should be done.”

She is, thankfully, and when she tells him it’s all good to go he takes out the pen drive, turns off the computer and follows the other vigilante out of the window – how can she climb down this seamlessly, damn it?

“I’m checking those files,” Ygritte says as he goes back on the fire escape and walks down. “The only list of names is – well, I don’t know what it is because it doesn’t say, but there’s sums of money written next to everyone. And it was encrypted.”

“So no one was supposed to see it?”

“Exactly. Should I read them to you?”

“Go ahead.”

Ygritte starts listing them, and Jon doesn’t recognize any and he’s starting to think he was wrong, but then –

“Wait, what’s the one you just said?”

“Petyr Baelish. Why? Is it familiar? If this is money they’re paying him, he should be plenty damned rich.”

For a moment Jon doesn’t know why it’s familiar, but then -

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks at the fourth floor.

“What’s wrong?” Ygritte asks.

“That’s too long to explain. You all keep looking at the files, I’ll be in touch.”

_Damn it_ , the guy not only was his father’s tailor, he also was one of Cat’s childhood friends or something like that and he’s been around for tea a few times. And he remembers him looking contrite during the funeral, and during the reception, even if something always struck him as false, and –

Didn’t Robb go to _him_ to get those new clothes of is? And didn’t at least three out of four of the attempts on his life happen in those exact days, if he’s not wrong? Robb did mention going there during his phone calls – they have a habit of doing it once a day if they can’t see each other.

Well, at least he has figured one part of this mess out.

He runs down the stairs – his back-up is waiting already.

“Did you find something out?” She asks, sounding worried.

“I wish I hadn’t,” he says, and then – damn. He should call Robb, and he might need her for help, which means he can’t keep his identity hidden much longer, and damn he hadn’t thought about that, and –

“Your brother is calling,” Ygritte tells him through the comms. Right, he left his phone at the home base.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he says, “can you put me through the comms? I mean, can you answer the call if –”

“I got it. Yes, of course I can, heathen. We’ve known each other this long and you think this is too complicated? You know nothing,” she sighs, and a moment later he’s talking to Robb.

“Jon? I’m sorry for the hour, but –”

“Robb, no, it’s okay, but listen –”

“No, I just need you to tell Mom something.”

“I – I’m not home, but –”

“When you come back. Tell her I’m going to Winterfell.”

“To Winterfell? What are you going there for? There’s no one at this time of the year.”

“And no one was there six months ago,” Robb replies. “But didn’t Dad go back there a month before the accident with some excuse? If there’s someplace those files might be… well, it’s worth checking out. I realized it today when I was at the tailor’s, can you believe that?”

Jon’s blood runs cold.

“What were you doing at the tailor’s?”

“I had a couple more shirts to retire. And uhm, I was talking to the trainee, he’s a nice guy, and Baelish was taking ages to come back and we started talking shop, and I don’t know why I started talking about growing up in Winterfell those first few years, maybe because he recognized my accent, and I told him we used to live there. And I realized that maybe –”

“Robb, you didn’t mention the files in the same sentence, did you?”

“Of course no, I’m not _that_ much of an idiot,” Robb replies. “Anyway, I’m leaving now, I just figured I’d tell you –”

And that’s when the call goes dead.

Ah, _shit_.

He tells Ygritte to call back, and she does, and then he gets a message saying that the number he’s calling is currently not reachable.

_Damn it_.

“What the hell did just happen?” Ygritte asks after the message is over.

“A huge fucking mess. You all look through those files. I’ll let you know in a moment.”

“What’s going on?”

Jon turns towards the woman on his right – she has a hand on his shoulder, and – he can’t see her face, but her posture radiates worry.

Fuck this.

“That was Robb Stark,” he says, and takes off his mask. “And I’m his brother. Half-brother. _Whatever_. It’s a long story, and I need your help.”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then she takes off the mask, too.

The first thing Jon thinks is that he understands why she huffs every time the Shadow calls her _beauty_ – she’s not one at all, technically. Huge lips, a nose that was obviously broken and reset badly at some point, fairly manly features, freckles spattered everywhere on her pale skin, the only really gorgeous thing about her is her blue eyes, but he’s nowhere near this shallow to take notice of that. Especially because she looks like she wholly means it, and that’s just about the one thing that matters right now.

“Brienne Tarth,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

He does, but at the same time they also head for Robb’s place – she follows him without asking, good thing that because he doesn’t have time to explain in details and it might already be too late, and by the time they’ve run to his brother’s apartment building –

Yeah. The door is open, the furniture is overthrown, there are clear signs that a fight broke out in the living room and no one is there. _Damn it_.

Brienne takes off her mask again and starts looking around the area, trying not to dislodge anything.

“Stay back,” she says, “I’ve been in the police long enough that I know how to not move things around too much in a crime scene if I need to take a look. It didn’t last long, though.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s just a sofa and a couple of chairs. And if the call was interrupted just like that and you heard nothing, it’s more probable that there wasn’t even a fight at all and they put this up to make people think it was the case. But – well, I suppose he’s alive at least. Did he tell you that he knew where those files were or had a clear idea of it?”

“No, he said he thought they could be in Winterfell.”

“Right. Then he’s most probably still alive – he can’t try and find them if they kill him first. How long is it from here to Winterfell?”

Good question. “Driving? It used to take us a couple of days, we’d stop at Riverrun for the night whenever we’d go. But – well, driving non-stop and breaking speed limit as much as two people in a mask who just hacked into Tywin Lannister’s database could get away with, maybe one day or a bit more.”

Brienne nods, taking in the information. Then –

“All right. Hopefully your brother will be smart enough to slow them down. I think I know someone who might be willing to drive us – no, scratch it, he will, since this is also about his paycheck.”

“His _what_?”

“Never mind. I can’t use the phone from here, though – let’s get out, find a cabin and go to the tailor’s – if anything, at least he should spill some the moment we get there. And if your friends have looked at those files ask them.”

“Right. Right, that’s a good plan. Let’s go.”

She jumps from the window – damn, she’s good – and he follows, not as gracefully, but he doesn’t break his neck doing that, at least. By the time he’s on the ground, she’s already calling someone from the cabin in front of the house.

“Yes,” she says, “there’s no point in hiding anymore. Not between us anyway. And it can’t be just two of us and Jaime - I don’t even know how many people would be there anyway. Only you would find it _fun_. Yes, close up shop for the next week – it’s probably a good idea. Yes. In front of Baelish’s shop. In thirty minutes.”

“Wait, was that –”

“The i>Shadow, yes.”

“Wait, you know who he is?”

“We never quite acknowledged it outright, but he knows who I am, too. Right, another one and we can go. I don’t know how to contact our other friend, but something tells me I won’t need to.”

“You mean – er… Reek? Or whatever his name is?”

“The man has been saving your brother’s hide for this long, I doubt he won’t somehow show up. And he might be half-deranged, but he’s useful.”

Jon can’t argue with that and looks at her as she puts in some more change into the phone booth. Then –

“Jaime. Yes, it was us, and – listen, Stark was just kidnapped. It’s a long story, but we think we know where they’re bringing him. You need to drive us to Winterfell. Possibly four people. No, I’m not _fucking joking_ , would I be calling you from a public payphone if I were? Yes, bring that too. In front of – wait, how did you know _he_ was the mole? What? Right, right, I’ll see you in half an hour. You’re already there? I just – right, we’re coming.”

“What – wait, did you just call _Jaime Lannister_ or –”

“We’ve known each other for years,” she interrupts, “and your brother was paying him to find out who wanted him dead, so I suppose he knew already. Don’t worry, he’s not cut from the same cloth as his father. Come on, I think we can leave as soon as we all meet up.”

“Shouldn’t we at least interrogate Baelish first?”

She sighs and puts her make back on. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Jon doesn’t dare asking what did just happen and follows her, wishing he could just pull off the damned mask himself, and turns back on the comm as they run towards Baelish’s shop. He’d really like to know why they don’t have to question the man, but he figures he’ll find out soon enough.


	9. Jaime

See, Jaime would have called Brienne and told her about his moment of enlightenment - it’s not like he had proof of anything, but while going through his notes he _had_ noticed that every time Stark almost got killed it somehow always happened after going in for a fitting at Baelish’s. And the name had sounded familiar some reason, so he had spent half a day looking into the guy before finding out that he had left Riverrun just out of high school to attend Lannisport’s fashion academy on a Lannister-paid scholarship. And fine, it also looked like he was some kind of childhood friend of Catelyn Tully’s, which should have meant that he most probably was neutral in this entire story, but still, it smelled fishy. Also, the guy did work a bit as an apprentice in Lannisport and then apparently turned out to be so good that he opened his own shop in King’s Landing, and a pricey one at that, and while Jaime isn’t the kind of person to doubt of someone’s hard work getting them nice places, the entire set-up just looked plenty suspicious. He couldn’t check if Ned Stark had gone for a fitting himself the day he crashed his car, but still, he had figured that dropping by the shop and asking a few questions couldn’t have hurt.

So he had put on his coat, taken his car and drove there – good thing he did, since now it looks like he’ll have to play taxi driver to fucking Winterfell. Good thing that he also had brought his old police badge – people don’t usually notice that it expired years ago, and he hopes his stroke of luck continues in that sense because if someone stops him he’s going to have to really deliver a good act.

Anyway, by the time he was there he had just found a couple police cars and an ambulance dragging the man out, and no one answered his questions when he tried to inquire.

“Well, shit,” he had said to himself as the ambulance drove away, “now good luck to me finding out what the hell happened.”

“That was me,” he had heard, and all of a sudden he had started smelling trash.

He had turned to his side and – well, damn. There _he_ was in the flesh, Jaime supposed. Or at least in the flesh, dirty trench coat, weirdass mask, hat and stench.

“Uh. Er, _Reek_ , I imagine?”

“Yes.”

“And – that was your doing?”

“If you want to know if he was a mole for your father, he was.”

“Did he confess that?”

“Before I made sure he’d need an ambulance? Yes.”

Jaime should have been fairly crept out by the tone – he sounds as if he can’t care less either way, but the way the black parts of that mask are grouping on his cheekbones, he can imagine that the guy is flaring with rage right now.

And that was when Brienne had called.

Now he just figures they’ll wait.

“Listen,” he says as the other man seems to head out for a back alley, “they’re coming here.”

“Who?”

“The other masks, who else? I – I kind of know one of them.”

“Which one?”

“The woman.” He knows Brienne hates being called _blue beauty_ , he’ll try not to use it. “They more or less figured out about Baelish too. And – I guess you know that Robb Stark –”

“Why do you think I was here in the first place?”

 _Interesting_. “Well, they know they’re bringing him to Winterfell. And apparently I was roped into driving them over there. You should probably come with us, even if my poor car will hate me for even suggesting that your coat might touch the upholstery.”

He’s not sure that he hears a snort, but he decides to believe he did. At least the guy sounds somewhat human.

Also, before anyone else comes, he figures it’s time to put his money where his mouth is.

“By the way,” he says, as casually as he can manage, “I had the Jeyne Poole case a few years ago. When I still was in the police.”

The other man goes stiff at once.

“And I told Ned Stark that if we ever found you I’d shake your hand first thing.”

“What?”

“I still have nightmares about that damned warehouse. How long were you in there anyway?”

For a moment, he doesn’t get an answer.

Then.

“Eight months.”

“Fuck,” Jaime swears under his breath. He thinks it’s the time for his daily cigarette. “How –”

“Is it caring and sharing time?”

“I guess not.” Jaime can see when someone doesn’t want to talk about something. “Still, I said I would, so.”

He holds out his hand. For a moment the other man just stares at it for a good ten seconds, then – then he reaches out and shakes it for maybe a few seconds before letting it go. Jaime half-smirks and wipes the dirt left on his hand on the wall he’s leaning against, and if it were for him he’d have tried to crack some other joke if anything to kill the tension, and then –

Sandor Clegane walks up to him.

“Bugger that,” he says, “she hadn’t told me you’d be already here.”

“Wait, she – _Brienne_? Just – oh, no. _You_ are the _Shadow of King’s Landing_?”

“For being a detective you sure as the seven hells can’t see what’s in front of you at times. We’ve realized that a long time ago, too, we just never publicly acknowledged it.”

Jaime feels like an idiot for having never put two and two together, but he’ll have time for that later.

“Well, seems like she called you before me, and good thing I came to her same conclusions on my own. Anyway, Baelish over there was a mole.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because _he_ arrived first and questioned the guy thoroughly before punching him into a coma,” Jaime says nodding towards Reek, who hasn’t said a word since Clegane showed up.

“So what, she wants all of us to go on a road trip to Winterfell or am I wrong?”

“Just like the old times, right?”

“Fuck off, Lannister, the last thing I want to think of are your _family road trips_ ,” Clegane huffs. Then he grabs a small flask out of his trench’s pocket. “Well, I’m going to get a damned drink before leaving. I imagine you don’t want it.”

“I _wish_ , but I have to drive.”

“Right. Hey, what about you?”

“I don’t drink,” Reek cuts him. “But thanks.” And that sounded – stilted? As if the guy barely knows how to answer to that kind of offer.

“Your loss,” Clegane shrugs, and takes a long sip. Jaime envies him for a moment, and then –

“Now, _how_ you were here already?”

“Ah, Brienne, you always go straight to the point, don’t you?”

Here she is, along with the other guy with the costume similar to the terror of the Dragonpit – or however the hell they called that other vigilante twenty years ago.

“Well?”

“I had worked out that Baelish might not be trustworthy, I came here and I found that our friend Reek over there did all the work already.”

“He _was_ the mole,” Reek confirms again, and doesn’t say any more.

“I imagine that you won’t share how did you know that,” recycled-costume-guy says, and shit, he sounds _twenty_. At most.

“I just did,” Reek replies.

Brienne takes off her mask, and Jaime wants to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but –

“Come on,” she says, “everyone here knows who I am but him,” she nods towards _Reek_ and then shrugs, “and I doubt he cares enough to share the news with anyone. The plan is – we know that whoever has Robb Stark is going to Winterfell with him. They have maybe two hours on us, but they’ll need a day to get there, too, and if he’s smart he’ll slow them down. I have no idea of what’s to expect from this, but – five of us should be enough to put an end to this. Also, _his_ friends,” she says, nodding towards the kid in the black costume, “did manage to hack into the Lannister Inc. database and are looking through the files now. If they find something, at least we’ll have some proof. That’s what we know. Is there something we don’t?”

“When I, uhm, asked him, Baelish admitted that he kept Ned Stark in for a longer fitting while his brakes were being tinkered with,” Reek adds a moment later. “And that’s all you need to know.”

“Great,” Jaime says, “so now what, I drive you all to Winterfell, we hope we get there before it’s too late, possibly disrupt a crime ring while we’re at it and we hope no one arrests us in the meantime?”

“If it possibly means your father getting his due, I’ll feel a lot better about all the money I’ll lose if I close shop for a week,” Clegane rasps, taking another drink.

The kid shrugs and takes off his mask.

Shit, he’s _young_. And way too good looking for this job, Jaime thinks. And then –

“Wait, aren’t you Ned Stark’s -”

“Illegitimate son? In theory,” the kid says – Jon, his name was Jon, Ned Stark must have mentioned him back in the day while they were working together.

“And how are you going around in that costume?”

“I’ll explain you on the way to Winterfell, I guess.”

“Are you in?” Jaime asks Reek – he hasn’t said a thing since explaining about Baelish and Ned Stark.

“I’m not taking off the mask,” he answers.

“I somehow doubt you want to out them and I don’t think anyone has issues with it.” Jaime retorts. “Well then. Car’s over there. With some effort we might all fit in. And _he_ rides shotgun,” he says, nodding towards Reek, and damn but referring to the man with the name is really making him feel dirty himself - he doesn't want to know why he's so set on using it. “Before anyone asks, if he doesn’t even want to take off that coat, I need to have the window open. No offense, but –”

“None taken,” Reek replies. “Well, let’s just go already.”

Jaime just hopes they’ll survive the next twenty-four hours, not that he’s so sure about it, before worrying about what they’ll find in Winterfell.


	10. Sandor

It’s not that Sandor ever forgets why he never liked playing in teams, but after sixteen hours of the most unlikely road trip that could be conceived he’s being reminded of all the reasons.

Also, Lannister needs to have his bloody driving license revoked - when Jon Snow told him that it would have taken a bit more than a day without pushing on the speed limits too much, he most probably understood _so I have to break all of said speed limits in case we actually arrive before the supposed bad guys_ , which is why he hasn’t just been _pushing_ it. If he hadn’t taken the alternative freeway to the Kingsroad, which no one uses these days because it’s old, not well maintained and lacks services, they’d have been arrested already.

Snow looks like he’s about to hurl every time Lannister turns a curve – well, if he does, Tarth is the one sitting next to him anyway so good luck to her. Tarth just looks resigned to it – she probably has experienced this driving long enough that she doesn’t mind. And their friend in the front seat looks absolutely not fazed – when Snow asked him how he could be that impassible, he had just muttered that he’d been through worse than bad driving.

Sandor doesn’t know what happens to you that makes you think walking around smelling like a trashcan is a good idea, but he supposes it’s worse than bad driving. Not that he minds specifically, he can understand that frame of mind even too much, but still.

“Lannister, how many people ever told you that you can’t drive worth a fucking damn?” He asks as they cross the Neck – good thing that they _didn’t_ take the Kingsroad for real, considering that there hasn’t been a time in his life when he was on that highway and didn’t find a traffic jam near the ruins of the Twins.

“There was a reason why Brienne always used to drive when we were paired up in the beginning,” he says, sounding way too fond for her not to notice. Except that she doesn’t. Shit, it’s been how long, ten years, since they met? Sure as hell they were pining after each other since before Sandor decided that he was done with the Lannisters and quit working for them. “That said, we are getting there, aren’t we?”

“If we survive the next four hours,” Snow says, sounding gloomy and this close to throwing up for real.

“Lighten up, kid, I won’t crash. I need to earn my paycheck. Besides, the last thing I want is having your sights set on me. Considering what happened the last time I had anything to do with –”

“Lannister, I am only using that tower as a base because _it happened to be there_ , and I’m not a Targaryen. End of the discussion.”

“I see that as far as sense of humor goes, you’re the same breed as your _father_. The one that raised you, I mean,” Lannister sighs before accelerating some more. Snow blanches, Brienne looks like someone who’d really like to take off at least her entirely too heavy coat – at least for the inside of this car, since there’s barely space for all three of them in the back, it’s cramped and they’re all sweating regardless of the temperature.

At least since Lannister is keeping the windows resolutely open even if it gets colder the more they go on, they all can breathe fairly well.

They have just passed the sign for Greywater Watch, and one for White Harbor has just appeared even if it’s still far, when Lannister’s phone starts ringing – he throws it at Tarth in the back.

“Were you expecting calls from an unknown number?”

“That’ll be Ygritte or someone from the tower,” Snow says, taking it. Right, he gave his hacker friends Lannister’s number, since he’s the only one who actually had brought a phone with. “Hey. Yeah, we’re past Greywater Watch. Yes, already. What? Well, at worst I’ll throw up on the bad guys’ shoes, it’s still a deterrent. Wait, I’m just going to put you on speaker.”

He does, and a moment later a female voice fills up the car.

“So, am I talking to King’s Landing best and only vigilantes association?” She starts. Sandor just groans out loud.

“Right. Sounds just like it,” she says – obviously she heard it. “Anyway, this social call was just to inform you that we did get through those files.”

“And did you find anything?” Tarth asks her.

“Anything is underestimating it. Now, there’s nothing related to Ned Stark, which is not surprising because just someone dumb would leave that kind of evidence anywhere that can be hacked. But – Sam, what was that thing you found in the accounting files?”

“They don’t add up. I mean, it _looks_ like they do,” some other kid from Snow’s gang says, “but a lot of transactions are listed under loans with a ridiculously low interest rate to a company none of us ever heard of. So I looked it up and it seemed like it’s somehow operational in Westeros, but it’s based in Braavos, and all that money goes through the Iron Bank.”

“Doesn’t that mean ridiculously low taxing rates and banks that won’t give out their clients’ details unless Interpol comes in with a warrant, maybe?” Snow asks.

“Well, yes, but we managed to look into it some more. Not to the point of hacking into the Iron Bank, of course, but –”

“Turns out that the company’s owner is apparently a Walda Frey,” a third kid cuts in.

“Wait a fucking moment,” Lannister says as he _almost_ misses a curve, fuck him and his driving, “wasn’t Roose Bolton married to a Frey?”

“That Frey, which makes me guess that she’s just a stand-in,” the kid confirms. “Anyway, the money that comes into Roose Bolton’s accounts _seems_ clean, from what we see, but considering how that bank works, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some money laundering going on behind the scenes. However it is eventually, there’s definitely proof that they’re business partners.”

“But that isn’t worth a fucking thing unless someone wanting to bring it to court has also Stark’s files proving that Bolton’s business is dirty in the first place,” Sandor says.

“Am I talking to the _shadow of King’s Landing_?” A third kid says, sounding fairly awed.

“Grenn, stop being ridiculous,” the second one quips back.

“You _are_ ,” Snow says, sounding pained.

“Yes,” the first male kid says, putting a rest to whatever was happening on the other side of the line, “that’s exactly the point. Unless you find some other proof, I suppose, but considering that the four of you are _all_ kind of operating illegally yourselves and that half of the public opinion hates you, you might want to have reliable evidence.”

Sandor can see _Reek_ clenching his fists in the front seat, but says nothing.

“I’m not operating illegally, I have a perfectly good license,” Lannister remarks, “but you have a point. Keep those files for yourselves for now. Though I suppose backing them up wouldn’t hurt.”

“Already covered,” the first girl says. “If you think I’d be that dumb not to do that first thing, you know nothing.”

“How many people are helping you back there, just for curiosity?” Lannister asks Snow as the speedometer reaches 180kph. Bugger it, if they get to Winterfell alive Sandor might actually kiss the fucking ground.

“Five,” Snow says. “You’ll find out being a team player is actually useful, sometimes.”

“Why would you be telling me that instead of the other three people in this car? They are the ones who don’t do teams. Anyway, was that all you had?”

“For now,” the first kid says. “Hey, do you know how long it takes to actually decipher that kind of accounting report thoroughly?”

“Fine, fine, point taken.”

“Good. We’ll call back if we learn something more. And try not to kill anyone on the road first of all your car, I can hear the engine screaming,” the girl says, and Sandor has to let out a snort at that – sure as hell Snow has friends with some spirit. At least that.

Snow closes the call and hands back the phone to Lannister.

“Yeah, no, I need both hands on the wheel. Hey, take it,” he says, nodding towards Reek. The guy shrugs and takes it with his left hand, and – and wait, why is his glove hanging weirdly? It’s as if the guy doesn’t have two fingers on it.

Sandor only feels kind of awed if the guy can send people to the intensive care ward if he can’t pack a full punch with both hands, and it takes some to make him feel awed. Not when he’s spent half of his life on Tywin Lannister’s payroll and another good part of it leaving criminals tied up in front of King’s Landing’s precincts.

“In more urgent news,” Tarth interrupts them, “does anyone in this car know someone living near Winterfell who might tell us what’s going on over there?”

Snow shakes his head. “We only ever went there for the holidays, almost no one lives in the village next to it and I don’t know anyone from it, anyway.”

“I do,” Reek suddenly says.

“Wait, _you_ do?” Snow sounds quite surprised about that.

“Long story. Can I use the phone?”

“Be my guest.”

Well, who’d have thought? Reek dials the number and turns off the speaker, then -

“Kyra? It’s me. Yes, I _know_ , that’s why I’m calling. I just need to know what’s the situation. Yes, I’m coming. No, not just me. I’ll pretend you never said it. So, what’s going on over there? All right. All right, understood. No, you don’t need to go outside, that’s plenty enough. Thanks.”

“Do we want to know who _Kyra_ is?” Snow asks when the call is officially done.

“You don’t. She’s someone who lives in Winterfell. And she says that she’s seen people parking in the courtyard for a few days and that all of them have cars with blackened glasses, and that most cars came from the direction of the Dreadfort, but there’s relatively little movement for now.”

If cars are coming from the _Dreadfort_ , Bolton is definitely involved. No one says a thing for the next few kilometers. 

“I can speed up some more, if –” Lannister starts after they pass a sign saying that they have two hours left until they reach White Harbor.

“Jaime, that’s plenty enough. Just drive.”

“As the lady commands,” Lannister sighs even if he does accelerate a bit more, and Sandor just hopes that at the end of the day he’ll get to see the man’s father behind bars once and for all.

Meanwhile, he’ll be glad if all five of them reach the place without a corpse to throw out of the car at the first stop.

\--

At the end of all things, he has to give to Lannister – his driving is abysmal, but it’s almost dawn, they left King’s Landing at two in the morning of the previous day and while he’s sure that they wouldn’t have stood through another thirty minutes cramped in that car with each other, they _did_ get to Winterfell in record time.

“Vacation house,” he mutters under his breath. “A castle, maybe.”

“It’s not my fault if the Starks used to be old nobility centuries ago,” Snow mutters. “And I think there’s quite some movement now.”

There is. From their vantage point – a small hill just outside the castle, but far enough that people couldn’t see them – it’s obvious that something’s going on. There’s a fair amount of cars in the yard, one small black van, a huge black van with completely blackened windows and a few men dressed in black going through the yard. They could be armed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think a plan is sorely needed,” Lannister says, very redundantly. As if. Of course they need a fucking plan.

“Jon,” Brienne interrupts the chattering, “is there some way to get inside without going through the main door?”

The kid clutches at his mask, thinks about it and shrugs, not very encouragingly. “Well, in theory. There’s an entrance to the crypts from the inside of the castle which brings into the main hall, but that would require getting to the other entrance. And in order to get there, you have to cross the entire yard and walk past the main building.”

“Are the crypts easy to navigate?”

“No. I mean, if you’ve been there more than once it’s fairly easy, but if you haven’t –”

“I see. Well then. Jaime, did you bring your old police badge?”

“I always bring it along. Why?”

“Because we need to be the distraction.” She takes off her coat after grabbing her journalist badge, rolls the mask inside it and throws it in the back of the car.

“We need to be _what_?”

“ _He_ has to go down in the crypts since he’s the only one who knows the way and he will need back-up. The three of them can be silent. If the two of us go to the gate, pretend that we’re there because you have an investigation going on and I have an article to write about Ned Stark’s death or something like that… we can distract them long enough for them to pass by, and at that point I guess we take them out and go through the main door.”

“Sorry, what investigation should I have going on _here_ when at most my jurisdiction would go as far as the Stormlands in the best of cases?”

“Make something up, I remember that once upon a time you were good at that.”

And she sounds so ridiculously fond, too. They’re going to be the death of each other if they don’t stop dancing around the goddamned point, Sandor thinks.

“Whatever. Fine, I’ll try. So, the three of them go through the crypts until they get out in the castle and we join them later. Better than we had five minutes ago. Shall we?”

“You go first,” Snow says, “we’ll follow.”

They nod at each other and start walking down the hill, and it’s obvious that her clothes are woefully inadequate – it might be early spring, but it’s chilly around here.

“Fine,” Sandor says. “I’ll have a drink before going down. Any takers?”

“The gods know I shouldn’t, but after having survived that trip, _yes_ , please.”

Sandor hands Snow his flask. Reek doesn’t say a word, so Sandor just takes a long, long drink himself and cracks his knuckles. He’s pretty damned ready to finish this – however it goes.


	11. Brienne

“You know, you could have just _told_ me while we were driving.”

“And distract you from watching the road? I wanted to get here in one piece.”

“And whose genius idea was it that _I_ should drive your sorry asses to Winterfell?”

“Next time I’m just going to break into your office and steal your car keys.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.” He sounds everything but serious, which is good, but she can hear the underlying worry in his tone. Considering that they’re going against at least five people without a weapon and her being the one out of the two of them in actual proper fighting shape, he has a more than one reason. Still, there wasn’t time for anything more refined, was it? She grabs her badge and breathes in.

“Right. Tell me you came up with _something_.”

“Maybe I did. Just go ahead with it,” he sighs, and then he takes a step forward.

“Gentlemen?”

All five of the men standing near the entrance turn towards them - they look like private security. Even better, or even worse, for that matter.

“What do you want?” One of the guys asks, not sounding like he wants to engage in this conversation.

“Well, I’m with the KLPD,” he says, flashing the badge and covering both surname and expiration date with his fingers, good thinking, “and my wife here, she’s with the Daily King’s Landing.”

_What_?

“And see, since her boss told her to write a story about Ned Stark for the six months of his departure, bless his soul, and since I had some business to clear up with a colleague down in White Harbor – nothing too important, just some paperwork that didn’t come through, you know how it works, I figured I’d just come with her. See, they said they’d like pictures of this place here just to _remind the readers where Ned Stark came from_ , or something like that. Didn’t your boss say that?”

“Yes,” Brienne blurts out, hating that he couldn’t even suggest her that he’d have gone for the married couple cover before starting to talk. Shit, she thinks she might be blushing – maybe they’ll think it’s because of the cold. “So – well, I should just snap a few pictures and then I’d be on my way. I have permission from the family, of course.” She doesn’t, technically, but she doesn’t think they’ll ask.

“Well, sorry but today you can’t,” one of the men cuts them short.

“Really,” Jaime goes on, “because Stark’s wife assured us that there was no one here and that a certain person in the village had the keys and would have let us in. I mean, as far as she said, there wasn’t any private security around the area.”

“She forgot to tell you that her husband gave us permission to shoot a movie here before he died,” one of the other guys says, “we’re with the production. And everyone else is inside, so you’re better off coming back a couple weeks from now.”

“I need to write the piece before the week-end, though,” Brienne presses on, moving closer to Jaime and looking behind the men’s shoulders. She sees a dark shadow passing by – she just hopes that it was Jon, because this charade won’t last that much longer, and –

“What the fuck, who brought the trash out?”

_Fuck_. That was another one of the men, and if look the other way –

“I don’t know, but I really need to get inside today,” she says, and the moment their attention is back on her, she punches one of them in the face, kicks the other in the groin, throws the one she punched in the face on top of the other three and before they can call reinforcements Jaime has knocked them all out and they’re out for the count.

“You know,” he says as he searches them for weapons and puts a few semiautomatics on the ground, “you could have _warned_ this time, too.”

“Today is a day for improvising,” she tells him as she grabs one of the men’s jackets and takes two of the semiautomatics out of the pile – she usually loathes using guns and she hasn’t touched one since she quit the force unless she couldn’t help it, but who knows if they might need them now. She hands one to Jaime, but he shakes his head and grabs the other firearms lying around instead. He takes a look around, then sees a garbage can nearby and dumps them all inside it.

“Jaime, what –”

“I think I know what to do with my last cigarette,” he says, taking out his packet. There’s just one left – he lights it and then throws it inside, making sure it touches the garbage bag.

The entire can goes on fire a moment later, good thing that he had run out of the way.

“Good,” he says, “now I think it’s time we run in. Maybe they’ll be distracted, if they notice.”

“Why,” she tells him as they walk inside the main gate, “you do have fairly good ideas once every century or so.”

“Says the one who’s spent four years playing vigilante because she couldn’t be a knight in shining armor in the police or nail bad guys through the power of the press.” And he’s perfectly right, for that matter.

“Right, let’s stop dicking around and do some real work.”

“Oh, like old times? I can tell you that considering that the yard is completely fucking empty and I can only see car tracks, they must have gone inside and then parked back out. And there’s just one door.”

“Well then, let’s do it _like old times_ for real.” She’s grinning in spite of herself as she hands him one of the two guns. His fingers brush hers when they take it, and she tries not to think about that too much. It’s not the time or place.

The door, of course, is locked.

“Should we?” He asks. “At worst, they all come at us and we’re a real distraction.”

“Why not. Go,” she says, and they throw themselves against the door once, then twice, and then it gives in.

They stumble into an empty hall, which makes no fucking sense because the castle shouldn’t be empty. Not when there were people guarding it.

“All right,” Jaime says, “let’s just do this step by step. The main hall’s over there, it should be brimming with henchmen.”

“Unless it wasn’t something they wanted noticed,” she suddenly realizes. “I mean, it was _five_ people outside. Two vans, maybe five cars, it can’t have been many of them in the first place.”

“Well, yeah, but if they’ve been following Robb Stark around the place while he looks for his father’s files, they should have heard us just now. We weren’t exactly silent. I mean, fine, they could be in another part of the castle, but you’d still hear the front door crashing if you’re in the main building and have put men everywhere and not just in a few rooms. Like anyone with sense would.”

Which is also another fairly good point. “Then they’re not in the main building. Or maybe they were until a certain point, the lights are on in the next room over and here, but they aren’t now.”

“Maybe Robb stalled?”

“Could be. But –no, wait, this is about the files, right? Let’s say that Ned Stark came here to hide them. We worked with the man for years, do you think he’d have put them someplace easy to find especially if he never even talked to his wife about them?”

“No. You’re right, he wouldn’t have – wait a moment, shouldn’t the rest of the gang be here already? How long can it take to – oh, shit.”

“What? They were going through -”

“The crypts,” they say at the same time, and when she looks at him she knows they’re thinking about the same thing.

“Where did Snow say that the other side of the entrance was?”

“In the main hall,” Brienne answers, and they run over there - right. The seats have obviously been used, and someone ate at the long table in the middle of it, but there’s no one around.

However, there’s a door half-opened in the middle of one of the walls. She runs towards it, opens it fully and – yes. There are stairs going downwards, and it smells like – like an enclosed, cold, dusty space.

“I guess we should join them,” Jaime says as he moves next to her.

“I guess we should do it now before it turns out that they needed back-up and we weren’t there.”

He gives her a nod and she starts walking down carefully – she can hear him behind her, but not long after they start, there’s barely any light to go by. Damn it – at some point there should be a switch, and if people are down here they will have the light turned on wherever they are, but for now there’s complete darkness, and it’s not a position she particularly wants to be in, especially when they don’t know what they’re in against.

Then –

“Are we holding hands now?” She hisses as he curls his fingers around hers – it’s the right hand. The one with burn scars.

“If we don’t want to lose each other it seems the best way?”

And damn him, he’s right.

She tries not to think about it too much, keeps her hold firm even if she tries not to squeeze lest she’d give herself out, and this is _not_ the time to tell him that she might have been wanting to hold hands with him for years at this point, and she walks forward.

And that’s when they hear something crash loudly at the far end of the corridor.


	12. Robb

_This_ , Robb thinks as he spits blood on the ground of the family crypts, _is not my fucking day_. And that’d be an understatement if there ever was one.

He also doesn’t know how long he can keep the charade up – it’s not as if he’s not sure that the files are in Winterfell, because they have to be, it’s that he honestly has no clue as to where, and everyone here has understood that he’s been stalling since the moment he opened his eyes and found himself with his hands tied in a van with blackened windows.

He also would like to know how did his captors have an inkling that he might have figured out where his father kept the files. Maybe. Because it was a hunch, he was nowhere near sure of it, but well – his father did take a trip to Winterfell on his own a month before he died. He said he had to check that the electricity was working before they went for the holidays. Yeah, right, that sounded pretty suspicious in retrospective.

Anyway, it’s not that he had that many hopes that someone might come, but he _had_ told his mother that he was paying Lannister to find out what was going on – if Jon told her and she told Lannister, maybe there could have been half a chance in the seven hells that someone might come. So he had tried to stall. He had made them stop for bathroom breaks he didn’t need, he had found every pretext in the universe to slow the journey down, but then they arrived in Winterfell. And he had been dragged into the main hall. Where he had found Roose Bolton in the flesh, damn him, and the latter hadn’t sugarcoated the situation – they were going to off him the moment they had the files. At that point stalling had become somewhat easier, because since he had no clue himself of where to look he had just figured he’d look throughout the entire castle, starting from the most improbable places. They couldn’t have known, right? And it _had_ worked for a bit, not counting that rummaging through every drawer and wardrobe in Winterfell with the guy that your father tried to arrest for half of his life pointing a gun at your back is hardly the way he had wanted to spend the week-end.

(He had wanted to maybe ask Theon out for real regardless of everything instead, but he figures that ship has sailed for good.)

And he had kept them busy. Up until they realized that while he really had no clue of where he was looking for the files, he was intentionally looking in places where he knew for sure he wouldn’t find a thing.

That had earned him the two bruises to his stomach that are currently making him feel dizzy for how much they hurt, and at that point he had admitted that if there was some place where you’d want to hide something, that’d have been the crypts. He might have suspected it but he had hoped to delay it for another couple of hours, at least.

The problem is, Roose Bolton hadn’t realized that Winterfell has at least two floors of crypts, and Robb maybe should not have answered that he really had no idea of what grave could have been chosen. It only earned him another punch to the face, which is currently making him spit blood, and he’s lucky he’s not spitting teeth.

“I don’t think you understand my terms,” Bolton says, very calmly. “I’m giving you ten minutes to figure it out. If not, I’ll go through each grave myself and break every stone down until I find the files, and patience if your mother will have to worry about the renovations.”

“What a bargain,” Robb croaks, “even if I find the files before ten minutes, the only difference will be that you won’t desecrate the entire place anyway.”

“That’s not wrong,” Bolton keeps on, his voice still way too even for Robb’s tastes. No one should sound that calm when they’re threatening to shoot you in the head. “Still, it’s nothing personal, but I certainly can’t leave you alive now, can I? It is a waste, after all you’re hardly a lost cause like my deceased bastard son, but what can you do.”

“You don’t sound too heartbroken about that,” Robb hisses.

“I’m not. He was convenient to have around, but he could have never cleaned his act enough to take my place, even if he liked to think he could. Do you think he kidnapped your sister’s little friend on my orders? I’m not that reckless and I certainly would have never tried to give your father more hints for his investigation. Ramsay was hoping I’d appreciate the initiative. However, I see what you’re doing and this is not the time for stalling. Look for those damned files, Robb Stark. You have ten minutes.”

As if. He can’t even begin to imagine where to start looking – his father knew the crypts a lot better than Robb or any of his siblings did, and if he chose a grave on the lower floor then there’s no chance he’ll find it in ten minutes. Then again, he didn’t stay away for long, and he went with his car. Maybe he didn’t have time to search for a suitable place in the bottom floor.

He glances around the area – they’re in the newest part, the one with the graves of Robb’s grandmother, grandfather, aunt and uncles. He raises the fake flowers on his grandfather’s, fully knowing nothing will be underneath, and then he looks sideways and notices that his aunt’s – it’s not the same as it was the last time. The stone covering the coffin is slightly, imperceptibly moved to the left – you can’t see it unless you’re standing next to it.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _and what do I do now_? If he moves the stone and finds the files he’ll die before seeing them destroyed, and if he pretends he hasn’t seen them they’ll find them anyway later. At this point he should just do it and savor his last moments on this earth, but then –

Then he hears footsteps somewhere in the corridor that leads here from the main entrance to the crypts.

Maybe if he takes this slow and makes enough noise –

“I think they might be in the next one over,” he says, “but – someone has to move the stone. I’m not sure I can do that on my own.” He keeps his voice high, hoping that if someone’s coming they might hear him and that he might cover the noise. And hoping that it’s not one of the five guys standing guard outside.

“Go move it with him,” Bolton tells one of his three henchmen. Obviously he’s the one who looks out of a body building competition – just his luck.

He gets out of the way and looks down with dread as the man moves the stone to the side and uncovers a thick binder sitting on top of the coffin.

“How efficient,” Bolton says. And then takes out a box of matches. _Shit_.

“Wait a moment,” Robb says, desperately hoping that he’s buying time. “If you aren’t going to destroy the crypts and I’m not leaving this place alive, at least don’t put my aunt’s grave on fucking fire.”

He doesn’t know how he manages to hold Bolton’s stare when the man has eyes that seem made of ice, but then –

“Seems reasonable,” he agrees, and leans down to take the files.

And _that’s_ when the air suddenly starts smelling like trash.

“What in the seven hells –” Bolton says, and then –

“Get down!” Someone shouts, and Robb _does_ , except that the guy at his side had another gun pointed at him –

Suddenly, someone has an arm over his waist and is throwing him downwards, straight into the opened grave, and he’s never been this glad of staring up into that white and black mask in his entire life. Patience if the guy still smells like a trashcan – Robb is plenty sure he’s not smelling like roses, either.

“Can you _stop_ trying to get yourself killed?”

“I – I’m not trying?” Robb whispers, hearing punches being thrown left and right above them.

“Right,” the man – Reek, even if Robb really can’t conceive how someone can willingly want to be called like that – says, before moving away. “Your brother needs help, I think.”

“My _brother_?”

But he doesn’t answer and he climbs out of the grave, and –

His left hand touches Robb’s shoulder as he stands back up.

He doesn’t have two fingers on it. Robb can feel it, and –

And –

How fucking stupid could he be?

 _I’ve been in worse places than I am right now_ , Theon had said in the bar.

_I haven’t seen my family in years and tracking down what’s left of it, if there’s any, would be a terrible idea in the first place._

_I can take care of myself._

Yeah, _of course he could_.

Robb doesn’t even try to listen to the voice telling him to stay the fuck down and sits up to see what the hell is going on.

Two out of three bodyguards that Bolton had with him are all out for the count - a tall, well-built man with a trench coat on is kicking one of them in the stomach, sending him flying towards the wall. The file is safely in the hands of – of that latest mask that showed up in King’s Landing, the one with the black costume –, who also is having Bolton’s arm in a hold that might not be easy to escape, and Reek is standing in front of him, completely unmoving.

“You two, leave,” he says.

“Hey, what –” the mask in the black costume starts.

“You heard me, I have something to tell him. And _he_ should come with -”

“Get down, all of you!”

Robb does, just in time to see Lannister and a tall blonde woman – right, Brienne Tarth, she was at the funeral – come in from the main hall entrance and shooting straight at three other people who were coming in from behind. They aim for the legs, and Brienne is on them the moment they let their weapons drop and fall in a heap to the ground.

“I knew I should have locked them in the car,” Lannister huffs. “And there’s another two on the outside.”

“I think they were out for the count. You hit them pretty hard.”

“Well, how about we all drag all the trash out, especially this specific piece of?”

“Lannister,” Reek says as he stands back up, “I need a word with him. And you two should know that.”

Robb can imagine why he’s telling the two of them –

“Right,” Brienne says, “let’s go. All of us. We can deal with them outside. And you, you said a word. Stick to that.”

“Jaime Lannister,” Bolton croaks from the ground where Reek pushed him before. “I understand why your father is _extremely disappointed_ in your life choices.”

“Guess what, I’m disappointed in his,” Lannister says without even looking at him. “Come on, Stark, get out of that damned grave. From what I see you need a lot of ice.”

“Not – not yet. Go, I’ll join you later.”

“But –”

“I’m coming _later_ ,” Robb says. “Also, what was he saying about one of you being –”

“I guess it’s useless to hide it,” the person in the black mask says, taking it off, and –

“ _Jon_? What the –”

“If you were wondering why I’m always out at night lately, this was why,” Jon says, staring down at the files and looking somewhat embarrassed. “And – listen, this is a long story – can I just take a rain check on explaining you?”

“A rain check of an hour at most,” Robb agrees, hoisting himself up and out of the grave, still not quite believing what he’s seeing. “And – I’m coming later.”

Jon shrugs and leaves with everyone else.

Everyone but _Reek_ , who’s still keeping Bolton in a chokehold, and doesn’t seem that inclined to let go.

“Leave,” he says when Robb is the only one still there.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“ _Leave_ ”, _Reek_ – or maybe Robb should say Theon, because he’s sure it can’t be anyone else – goes on, not looking at him. “I need a word with him and I need it in private.”

“I can imagine why,” Robb keeps on, taking a couple of steps. Damn, his stomach hurts. “Does it change anything if I tell you that I know who you are? For real.”

All of a sudden the man’s shoulders go so rigid he might as well be a piece of wood.

“You don’t,” he says.

“You touched me with your left hand,” Robb says, not unkindly, and – 

“Please, just leave. You can come back in after I’m done with him, but – go.”

“Fine. But don’t think I’ll let you disappear after this,” Robb says, and turns his back on the scene, heading for the tunnel leading outside the castle.

Obviously, he realizes when he’s out that he hadn’t paid attention to the direction the others headed in – everyone had gone back inside, not outside, which means that he’s on his own, but – maybe it’s better, for now.

He waits, and he doesn’t know how long it is when he hears someone coming out of the door.

He isn’t surprised when he smells that stench again, but by now he almost doesn’t mind it.

“I didn’t kill him.”

Damn, the voice is - is so damn similar. Just a pitch or two lower.

“I wouldn’t have judged you if you had,” Robb replies honestly.

“Isn’t that going against your family ethics or something like that?”

“It should be, but – everyone thinks I’m cut of the same cloth as my father. Maybe I’m not.”

For a long, long moment, there’s no answer at all.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I know you’re the guy who saved Jeyne’s life even if he had no reason to, or so she used to say the few times she ever talked about you, and I know you’ve saved mine more than once. And I know I’ve been wanting to ask –”

“Don’t. It’s not – he’s not – it’s not the same thing at all.”

Robb looks at the dark ink swirling all over the other’s cheekbones.

“How about you explain me, then.”

The laugh that comes after isn’t exactly heartfelt or reassured. “Ramsay Bolton kept me prisoner for eight fucking months. I was barely eighteen and you really don’t want to know how _that_ happened, but those two fingers you noticed missing? They aren’t there because the first time I told him my name wasn’t _Reek_ he cut off one of them. Same for the second. I couldn’t bear to lose the third.” He visibly shudders, then stuff his hands into his pockets. “Jeyne was the only person who ever cared to ask me in all that time. And when I saw what he was about to do to her –” He stops, shakes his head and resolutely stares in the distance. “I don’t even remember how that happened. I blanked out. One moment she was there, looking at me and the other I had stabbed him to death. But that’s not the point. The point is that you don’t need to know this and you need to let me be.”

“I might. But what happens if I go back to Baelish’s shop and ask _Theon Harlaw_ out for coffee?”

“Good luck there, he was the mole –” 

Robb would really like to know about that, but then the other man just stops dead in his tracks. Completely. Every inch of his body.

“You’d do _what_ ,” he finally blurts out. And – he’s not even trying to fake the voice anymore.

“You heard me the first time.”

“You don’t really want to do it.”

“Says you. I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time we met. Pretty much.”

“Seven hells, you fucking would,” comes a long, long moment later.

“I don’t change my mind easily,” Robb admits, his throat feeling so fucking sore he could drink for the next month straight. Still, he has to make a point. “I could ask him now, if he wanted to.”

And then he has no idea of what possesses him to move closer and put his fingers on the other man’s cheek, but for a moment he does lean imperceptibly into Robb’s touch.

“And even if it’s not the case, at least let me say thank you,” Robb says as his voice becomes lower, just a tiny bit, and he goes for kissing his cheek through the mask just for a question of principle, but –

“Not _this_ ,” the other man says, and then he moves back just a bit, and –

And then he reaches up with his left hand and takes off the mask, throwing it away to the side along with the battered old hat he was wearing.

Robb isn’t at all surprised when Theon’s face looks back at him and not anyone else’s.

“Damn you,” Theon says, “it’s – you shouldn’t – that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Is that positive or negative?”

Theon laughs that laugh without mirth and looks down at his gloved hands instead. “You just don’t – fine. All right. I’ll try to explain it. Ramsay Bolton – he didn’t give out names for fun. He called me Reek and he let me wash maybe once each month just to make sure I didn’t get infections from filth. The first thing I did after escaping was finding a homeless shelter and take the longest shower of my life. I _hated_ smelling like trash, I hated everything about it and someone normal would have just tried to forget about it and try to find a bargain with the police after turning themselves in. And instead – I figured that I’d give Roose Bolton a taste of his medicine. I mean – he let his fucking son do whatever he wanted, right? And – being Reek meant being – weak, I guess. Anyway, it meant doing what he wanted me to do. Enough to stand by and watch him flay a thirteen year-old. So – so I decided that I’d just become the entire contrary. Not that Ramsay fucking Snow would ever have seen that, but – I spent years building up the muscle I lost and finding cheap places to train in. And when I figured I was ready – well, there already were masks everywhere, what was one more? I went for the whole package. If they wanted Reek, they’d get it. Or him. Whatever. It was never supposed to touch my – my civilian identity. By the way, I lied.”

“What?”

“Harlaw was my mother’s surname. Not my father’s. I used it for a reason. Anyway, I was there, minding my business and working for that creep – I applied there because I knew he was involved with Lannister, and from what I remembered I knew those two were business partners, so I figured he might clue me in without realizing it at some point. And then you come in and talk to me like my opinion’s actually worth something.”

“… Wait, _me_?”

“You don’t even want to know. I couldn’t remember the last time someone did it since my mother died. And I told myself that I shouldn’t have followed you back home that night, and good thing I did, and then – it seemed like I couldn’t not do it for whatever godforsaken reason.”

“Believe me, I’ll hardly be the one complaining.”

“Right, sure. And – you just – you know, I told myself I’d keep the two things separate. I mean. I’d be Reek when I was out to get my revenge and that’d be it, and then – I realized Baelish had been the one selling you out because I heard him on the phone telling someone that you were talking about Winterfell and you might have figured out where to find the files. He used to be more careful than that, but that day he just was overexcited. I guess. And – I just – I might have asked him about it without the mask. Not that anyone is ever going to believe him if he ever wakes up to tell that story, if they don’t arrest him first. _That_ was how much you fucked me up. And you should be running for the hills right now.”

Which is a perfectly valid point, Robb figures, and there is a part of him saying that he should just say thanks and end it here. If he _really_ had been so much like his father as everyone seems to believe, he might have blanched at the idea of someone going as far as – as beating someone else into a coma for _his_ sake, regardless of how bad of a person they were.

Point is – he’s no Ned Stark. He never tried to be – he understood that early enough and that was also why he didn’t follow in his footsteps dutifully like most people who ever talked to him used to assume. And instead of being scared shitless, maybe he feels just a tiny bit surprised that someone would go to such lengths to save his hide.

“Can I tell you a story? A bit half-assed, but it might do.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“Since I was old enough to go to school – people asked me if I’d like to grow up to be like my father. Just me – I guess it comes with being the firstborn. I always told them maybe. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be like him, in theory, but – he might have had too strict an idea of how justice was supposed to work. I knew I wanted to make the world a better place and all that, but - I’d have rather tried to prevent bad shit from happening than make sure to catch whoever did it. If it makes sense. Which is why I’m in my current line of work and each single one of my father’s former colleagues looks surprised that I’d get an underpaid job trying to keep kids out of juvy. So – what I mean is, maybe I should be running for the hills, but why? You went out of your way to save my hide more than once, you did it just now, you’ve tried to make something more or less good out of all the crap that happened to you, and – fuck’s sake, I send people to community service regularly for the sake of showing them everyone deserves a second chance and I should be judgmental with you?”

Theon looks at him as if he can barely begin to make sense of the story Robb just told him, which he supposes is only fair, but the way he’s staring at Robb as if he can’t even process it is doing things to Robb’s stomach that are better left unspoken.

“Yeah, well, I guess, but – Stark, really. My father is a second-rate crook who ended up in jail the year after he told Bolton that he’d have been glad to have him take me in his organization if he wanted payment for some loan Bolton made him that he couldn’t repay. And I only was with him because after my mother died someone from social services forced him to come get me, otherwise he wouldn’t have even given a shit and I’d have spent my life in a group home, not that it wouldn’t have been better. And I spent the last six months or so running through the city in a costume that I hid below the garbage can in front of my crappy studio apartment just so that I could imagine Ramsay Snow watching me doing it and seethe in the afterlife. You actually have a _future_ in front of you. You don’t want to ask me out for coffee.”

“Just for the record, can I ask what you told Roose Bolton? If you want to share. You don’t have to.”

Theon shrugs, looking more or less happy that they changed the topic. “Not much. I just told him that I only was there because he let that fucker he fathered do whatever he wanted as long as he dealt with his own dirty business and that he had brought it on himself. And – I might have broken a couple of his fingers. Except – I always told myself, back when I was training – that I’d have enjoyed that moment, when I finally could have it.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I kept on thinking about how disappointed _you_ ’d have been if I did any more than that.”

He’s not looking at Robb as he says it, more at his hands again – he shrugs and takes off the gloves, stuffing them into his pockets, and resolutely does not take his eyes off them.

Any smart person would really have run for the hills at this point.

Robb never prided himself on taking the smart decision all along, though – did he ever?

He feels Theon stiffen again when he gently places his fingers on his wrist.

“So what if I ask you what are your plans now?”

Theon might have laughed, maybe, but it stays stuck in his throat. “Who even fucking knows. I don’t have a job at this point, I don’t really need this stupid mask anymore and I don’t know if sewing suits and being able to disarm six people at once are marketable skills. Does this have a point?”

“Maybe. So, let’s say that no one in their right mind would ask your masked alter ego out for dinner. Let’s also say that your civilian identity is compromised. And let’s also say you told me Harlaw wasn’t technically your surname –”

“I wish it had been, but yes, so?”

“So what was it?”

“My – you’re stubborn, aren’t you.” But then he sends Robb a look that seems almost fond, out of everything, and – “Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy. Are you satisfied?”

“Not quite yet. So –” He swallows and holds out his other hand. “Robb Stark, nice to meet you. And I apologize if I’m being insistent, but I’d be really glad to buy you that coffee once I sort out this mess and we can go back home.”

They stare at each other for probably too long, not that Robb pays attention, Theon’s eyes going from fond to surprised to I-really-can’t-believe-it, but then –

“Shit, you really don’t care, do you?”

“I don’t know, maybe if I were you I’d look into talking to someone about this entire story, given that you can find someone qualified and who won’t turn you to the cops, but all things considered I think I’ll take my chances.”

And at that – at that Theon actually does laugh, and it’s not fake. It’s not even that long of a laugh, but when he smiles he really does look quite lovely, even if he’s still not showing his teeth as he does. But never mind that, Robb can be patient.

“Fine,” Theon says as soon as he’s gotten his bearings again, “fine, I’ll let you buy me coffee. Are you happy?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you can be a demanding little shit at times?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Robb agrees without much of a problem – it has happened, after all.

And then –

“Still, you didn’t let me do this, first,” he says, and before Theon can object he moves closer and presses his lips to the corner of Theon’s mouth as lightly as he can, figuring that he shouldn’t just come over too strong and that maybe he shouldn’t do adrenaline-driven things that they might regret later –

“Robb, _really_?”

That’s when they pretty much jump a meter apart and Robb sees Jon standing at the entrance of the crypts, files in the crook of his arm and mask in hand, looking at them as if he can barely begin to make sense of the scene.

“It was a long time coming,” he cuts in before Theon can. “And by the way, _how in the seven hells_ did you manage to, you know, play the masked vigilante for months without any of us having a clue and _where did you even find that costume_?”

Jon’s cheeks go slightly red as he clutches the files.

“I think we need to have a long talk. But that’s going to be after you call the local authorities.”

Then he moves closer and dumps the files into Robb’s hands. “And we need to get the hell out of here. Maybe not Lannister – he’s fairly safe as far as not getting arrested goes – but all of us need to go hide and you need to secure the place now.”

“We can go to Kyra’s,” Theon says, moving away from Robb.

“Wait, who the hell is she anyway?”

Theon rolls his eyes and makes a pained face. “She was one of the girls Ramsay Snow kidnapped. It was a week or two after I got into that hellhole. I helped her escape, he didn’t manage to catch her, he caught _me_ and you could see the signs if I took off my shirt. And I looked her up after I got out, and she’ll be very happy to let us hide out there. Are we done yet?”

Jon doesn’t try to inquire further. “Fine. Robb, do it.”

Robb nods as Theon and Jon leave, and he sighs deeply as he goes back inside the castle, heading for the landline. He can see all of Bolton’s henchmen tied against the chairs in the room - Bolton himself is triple tied to one.

He rings the White Harbor precinct - there’s not much of a police force in Winterfell and the chief in White Harbor is an old friend of his father’s, he’ll see this through. And he’ll deal with Interpol or whoever it is they need to nail Tywin Lannister, too, but from what he sees looking through the files there’s plenty evidence as far as both are concerned.

Then he sits down and waits, wiping out the speck of dirt that latched to the palm of his hand.


	13. Jaime

“Not to pry, but how have you been standing here this long without a fucking coat?”

Brienne half-glares at Jaime as he hands her the blue coat and mask that were still in the back of his car – good thing no one searched through it after the White Harbor Special Forces came blazing. Brienne hadn’t gone hiding with the others and used the journalist cover-up, and Stark hadn’t objected at it, but she’s still been out of the damned thing since yesterday and it’s _cold_.

“Thanks,” she says, taking them and putting the coat on. She keeps the mask on her lap – she’s sitting on an old gravestone in some old cemetery in the Winterfell courtyard – Stark said that they used to bury the servants here during the Middle Ages, but no one has been laid to rest there in centuries.

“What’s with that face? You should lighten up. You have a nice story to sell to your bastard of a boss, no one has realized that you weren’t here for work, justice has been served and on the way back it’s going to be just you and me. What’s to be sad about?”

“Wait, why is it just the two of us?”

“Clegane said that he’d shoot himself in the head before spending some more time on a car with me and after Robb realized that _he_ saved his sister’s hide he said he could absolutely come back with his party – he’s going to take the car Ned Stark kept here if there was the need. Of course his half-brother is going with, and – the other guy, _Theon_ , at least it’s a fucking normal name, is also in that party for reasons I’m not so sure I want to know in-depth, so it’s back to old times.”

“Right, but _I_ am driving.”

“Do you think that I was going to do it again after I spent twenty-six hours awake to drive your merry band of watchmen across the entire continent?”

“Just like old times, I guess,” she says, sounding like she really misses them. Even if they were given cars that used to break down every other week and they paid for the gas out of their own paycheck half of the time, too.

He sits next to her on the gravestone and hands her the car keys – she takes them, and he can feel her fingers trembling as they touch his.

“So,” he says, wondering if he’s ever going to breach the subject, “what are the plans? Going to Tarly with a breakthrough story and watch him choke on his decaf?”

“I guess,” she sighs, “but I’m not so sure I want to stick around.”

“Wait, what?”

She shrugs minutely. “I did more good for the collectivity wearing a costume than being a cop or a journalist – and I was better at being a cop, for that matter.”

“So what, you want to go back to the force?”

“What? Come on, no. They might clean things up now and throw Slynt in the jail where he belongs, but King’s Landing is hopeless.”

“Wow, I remember when I said we were doing a hopeless and thankless job back in training and you’d argue with me two hours over it. Have you finally seen the light?”

“Maybe, but you still went through it, didn’t you?”

And - yes, he was. It’s not that he didn’t know it was a hopeless and thankless job, it’s that back when he was young he thought you could still make a difference. Not that you can’t somehow, he’s seeing, but not from the inside, anyway.

“So what, you want to put on that costume full-time?”

“That wouldn’t pay the bills, I fear.”

He takes a deep breath, thinks about what Clegane told him back when this story started and figures it’s just time to come clean.

“What if I needed a hand around the office?”

“ _Do_ you?”

He shrugs, trying not to make it sound like a big deal. “Well, it’s a more boring life than you’d imagine watching the movies. It’s not that you don’t work, but it’s people wanting evidence that their wife or husband cheats on them half of the time. Which pays well, but it’s fucking boring.”

“I’m not going to be your _secretary_ ,” she huffs.

“How could I demean your skill set like that? People should think you’re my secretary and then we’d do things the way we used to. And considering that it’s a fairly boring job, you’d still have time to go out at night and be the hero King’s Landing needs and doesn’t deserve.”

“Tell me the truth, you just need someone to keep that hole you call office in some semblance of order.”

“That, too, maybe, but I think you can handle it.”

“I suppose that for a steadier paycheck and with _you_ as my boss, I could do worse. At least you wouldn’t always tell me to change my line of work.”

“Never said it was supposed to be like that. If we split half and half, in theory no one is the boss, or am I wrong?”

In the academy, people used to say that she had a darned ugly smile, same as the rest of her, mostly because she has some crooked teeth and too huge lips, but he always thought that _people_ could be fucking stupid and that most of the ones in their class were. Thing is – when she does do it full-on, her cheeks go slightly flushed and her blue eyes look a bit like the sea on nice summer days at Casterly Rock, which he hasn’t seen in years and won’t see again any time soon, and it’s nowhere near ugly if you ask him. Right now, it might even be downright charming even if she’ll never fit that definition.

“You wouldn’t be. And are you sure being the hero King’s Landing needs and doesn’t deserve wouldn’t be something _you_ ’d like?”

“Like hell. I’ve been that person once and all I gained was a not so honorable discharge and almost losing a hand. Besides, one of us has to be in it for the money.”

She laughs again, and for a moment she looks ten years younger.

“Deal, then. All things considered, I was dead tired of Tarly saying that women belong in elementary schools.”

Then she holds out her left hand

( _it’s not just because he mentioned it in passing before, she always stays on his left side since he lost feeling in the right one_ )

and he thinks that he really should have asked her long before now, and when he takes her hand to give it a shake –

The plan was just to do it once and then just spill everything on the way back.

But then her fingers close against his palm, same as they had before in the crypts and damn it but that had been a fairly mean trick on his part, and –

Fuck it.

He moves closer, drags her forward and it’s probably the most appalling first kiss they could have shared – their mouths kind of clash against each other, it’s bloody cold, they’re sitting in an abandoned graveyard and they’ve both been awake for one day and a half at least, by this point. Never mind that it lasts three seconds and then Brienne moves away.

He tightens his hold on her hand.

“What was _that,_ ” she breathes out.

“Something I’ve been wanting to do since you came to visit me in the hospital after I shot Aerys Targaryen in the back twice and told me that people should have given me a medal. More or less. If I don’t remember wrong. But if you don’t –”

“Jaime, _damn you_ ,” she sighs, “I’ve been wanting to do it since that time you punched Ronnet Connington in the mouth on the last day of training.”

Wait. Since that time -

“That was what, _ten_ years ago?”

They stare straight at each other, and then –

“We’re idiots,” she says.

“I can’t disagree with that at all. Does that mean I can kiss you again properly now?”

“Just do it already,” she says, not sounding as exasperated as she was aiming for.

So he does.


	14. Theon

_Epilogue_

_Six months later_

 

“Hey, Theon?”

Theon stops midway as he puts on his coat – he was heading for the backdoor, but if Seaworth wants him to cover for someone who’s supposed to work the graveyard shift he figures he’ll do it. It’s still more money he’d contribute for rent.

“Yes? Do you need me to stay longer?”

“What? Oh, no, we’re covered. Just, that redheaded girl? The one who’s friends with –”

“Ygritte?”

“Right. That one. She dropped by before your shift started and said to give you this when you left.”

He hands over a thankfully still sealed envelope. Theon hasn’t really lucked out much in his life, but finding a boss who _will_ give him letters from people he doesn’t know without reading them first has been one of the two real strokes of good fortune he’s had. Well, other than that, there’s the part where he’s not underpaid – you’d think tailoring would pay more than bartending, but you’d be wrong – and where he actually can sleep some in between working and everything else because he doesn’t have to work ridiculous hours.

“Oh. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then. If you need someone to cover other shifts –”

“Of course, I’ll call you. Have a good night.”

Theon isn’t so sure of _that_ , not if Ygritte is dropping by with envelopes, but he’ll see. He opens the letter the moment he’s out of the backdoor – there are two pieces of paper and a napkin inside it.

The napkin reads _chased a few buggering drug dealers out of the Iron Gate yesterday – only missed two. Their friends said they should be hiding somewhere near the old Street of Flour. They’re selling badly cut meth_.

Nothing else, and the message is barely legible. As if Clegane can waste time with actual paper on top of his handwriting being atrocious.

The second isn’t even handwritten – right. If the paper doesn’t come from Lannister’s printer, the _Daily King’s Landing_ approves of what he and the others do at night.

_Sorry to bother you, but one of the guys I dropped at the precinct yesterday said that he’s part of some larger gang and that they were planning to break into that small bank at near Cobbler’s Square – I can’t be in the area but maybe you could? I’ll owe you one._

Well, he’s definitely checking this out before seeing Clegane’s meth dealers – at least she asked nicely.

The third is handwritten. On some seriously overpriced creamy paper with a – a Targaryen sigil in the upper corner? Has to be Snow. Who has decided to put to flimsy use whatever he finds in that old creepy manor, he figures.

_Don’t you dare go out at night tomorrow, Robb was saying he had plans to do something that I don’t even want to know about and he’s not going to tell you because it’s some surprise, or so he says, and I still don’t know how he’s dating you out of every person in this city but you’d better not ditch him._

Theon can’t help laughing – sometimes he can’t even begin to make sense of how fucking absurd this situation can be, but – it’s not in the bad sense of the word. Not at all.

He takes a lighter out of his pocket and burns the first two messages – the third is just too hilarious, he wants to keep it for posterity, and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans before hurrying out of the alley and taking a few turns until he gets to a darker, more secluded one. The one where he used to keep his old costume.

He opens the empty garbage can in the far corner – it’s empty for a reason, he’d rather not smell like a dumpster anymore –, takes out the bag already inside it, changes into the dark tracksuit and trench inside it, then fishes the mask out of the coat’s pocket and puts it on.

( _It used to be part of a dress that Baelish had tailored for Cersei Lannister but that she never bought – she had come in for a fitting when Theon had just started working for them man, she had looked at it and said he was too fucking weird, what was heat-sensible clothing anyway?, and Theon had saved it from the trash and made the mask out of what he could salvage. You could see through it, but the cloth was still thick enough that no one could actually recognize him if he wore it on his face, and it looked – cool. Not that he ever owned anything_ cool _in his life until that point, and he had just really liked it. And while he has burned his old vigilante clothes, he couldn’t quite manage to throw that away._ )

Very well. That bank isn’t even too far – he’ll start from there, and he’ll ask about the meth sellers if he has the chance, and maybe if Tarth _owes him a favor_ she’ll patrol the area tomorrow, since he’s apparently not going to do it.

\--

At four thirty in the morning, he has left the two bank robbers and the meth sellers tied up in front of the only precinct in Flea Bottom. He’s also plenty sure he has fresh bruises all over his chest – fine, maybe he should stop refusing whenever that friend of Snow’s who for some forsaken reason actually _wants_ to be a tailor offers to put together some kevlar chest piece for him. He’s done well enough without it for now, but back when he did this as Reek he didn’t even overtly care about the consequences – after all, who was going to give a shit if he broke a rib or something of the kind?

Now – now he can’t, and he still doesn’t know what to do with it, but he guesses he’ll figure that one out.

He decides he’s done enough for the day and heads back towards the alley where he keeps the costume – he changes back into his regular clothes, leaves trench and mask into the empty garbage can and by five AM he has walked back to Robb’s place, which isn’t just his own anymore these days. Good thing that it might be a shitty neighborhood, but it’s a _small_ shitty neighborhood.

He feels the weight of the key in his back pocket but then he sees that the window on the second floor is open.

 _That complete reckless idiot_ , Theon thinks without meaning it, and then he shakes his head, decides that even if he has the wrong clothes and shoes it’s still safe enough, and he uses the ivy root growing along the building to climb upwards, until he reaches the window and hoists himself in – it’s probably worrying that Robb doesn’t even stir. Fine, Theon can be silent, but just someone at least halfway deranged could sleep with an opened window after five attempts on his life not even a year ago.

 _Then again just someone halfway deranged could be planning a surprise anniversary dinner for_ you _out of everyone, or whatever it is that he’s planning._

He smiles in spite of himself – he’s done it more in the last six months than in his entire life or so it seems – and he takes off everything but his shirt, and then he slides inside the bed.

He has barely made himself comfortable when he hears a groan and suddenly there’s an arm around his waist.

“Time is it?” Robb says against his shoulder, more asleep than awake.

“Five in the morning. More or less.”

“Graveyard shift?”

“No. The _other_ graveyard shift.”

“How many of them will I find in my court two weeks from now?”

“They were all of age, don’t worry.”

“Good. How many casualties?”

“Their ribs, mostly.”

“Nice. Do you have work tomorrow?”

“Afternoon shift,” Theon sighs as he moves closer – the first time they did this he had almost freaked out and told Robb he’d sleep on the couch, but now that he’s adjusted to it –

Just someone deranged could want it with him, he still thinks, but he doesn’t care half as much.

“Good. So what if I come get you when you’re done? Or do you have to do the rounds?”

“Tarth owes me, she can take my rounds tomorrow.”

“Nice. By the way, I took a day off. Don’t you dare waking me up before noon.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Theon snorts, and when Robb’s ankle hooks against his own a moment later he just melts against the mattress, his own arm grasping back at Robb’s waist.

( _Sometimes he thinks he never did anything to deserve this, and then he remembers what Jeyne had told him a few months ago when she had come back from Essos and Sansa and Robb had dragged him to her place so they could see each other again_ -

I never forgot what happened in that warehouse, _she had said_ , and if you think you don’t deserve to at least leave some of it behind you you’re wrong.

 _He might have cried when she had told him that no, she never shared his name with anyone. Not the police, not Sansa, not Ned Stark. And maybe she was right, even if he still can’t quite get there yet. But these days he thinks maybe at some point he will._ )

And –

He still hates this city, he still wakes up screaming at night half of the time, sometimes he will think the fingers on his left hand are still there (that feeling quite never went away), he still hasn’t really talked about any of it to anyone not counting Robb (and he still doesn’t know how Robb hadn’t decided that it was too much to deal with at the end of it), and still –

 _Still_ , he thinks about the way Robb looked at him when he walked into Baelish’s shop that first time, he thinks about the way he had made him feel like someone gave half of a shit about him either way since his mother died. Maybe the two of them _really_ deserve each other, as Snow says whenever he points out that Robb has a death wish and Theon used to run around the city smelling like trash.

And if they do –

If they do, he’s not going to be the one to say no to it. He tried it once and he couldn’t stand his ground for five minutes.

“Five in the morning is too fucking early for the feeling sorry for yourself.” 

Damn, he had thought Robb had gone back to sleep.

“Or too late. Whatever. You get it. Don’t go there. If you want to talk about it in the morning –”

“No, no, there’s nothing wrong. Well. Not more than usual.”

“Fine. Then get over here,” Robb says, not that the tone leaves him much of a choice, and as Theon leans down and their lips touch, he grasps at Robb’s shoulders tight enough to hurt and shivering when Robb’s fingers brush against the white scars covering his back as if there’s really nothing wrong with it.

Months ago, after dragging Roose Bolton to where his henchmen were being secured, he had thought for a moment that he should just have taken the way out of the main door, stolen a car and disappeared somewhere – not King’s Landing – for everyone’s benefit, but then he thought about what Robb had said and had gone back through the crypts instead, and he hadn’t known it back then, he hadn’t really known much at all –

But now he knows he made the right choice.

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in who is inspired by whom: you probably all figured that out yet, but as far as who was inspired by whom: Theon’s SL was very loosely based on Rorschach’s from _Watchmen_ , Jon was even more loosely Batman-inspired, same for Brienne and the noir version of Spiderman that came out a few years ago (mostly for her job and the costume), Sandor was supposed to be kind of like Marv from Sin City but it didn’t work quite right so in the end it was mostly the looks (his moniker was taken straight from a Wild Cards character though).


End file.
